


If I go now, I'd look for another you

by LeapAngstily



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: A.C. Milan, Age Difference, Alessio is a mess, Bisexual Character, Bisexual character in straight-passing relationship, But they're unexpectedly high-functioning messes, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Homophobia in football community, Homosexual Character, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Infidelity, Institutionalized Homophobia, M/M, Messy Milan Politics, Monto is also a mess, One-Sided Attraction, Riccardo Montolivo/Cristina De Pin (background), Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21587068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: “For the first time in his admittedly short adult life, Alessio looks at another footballer and wonders.”In 2015 Alessio joins Milan and falls for his captain. Four years later he’s the captain, forced to let go.
Relationships: Riccardo Montolivo/Alessio Romagnoli
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26





	1. the beginning

**Author's Note:**

> I've been an emotional mess since Monto announced his retirement, so please allow me to share my long-term therapy project I've been working on for almost a year now.
> 
> For those who are familiar with my earlier works, you might be interested to know I call this story the [Fairytale](https://archiveofourown.org/series/36369) of the new generation. Make of that what you will. The story title and sub-titles come from [Heartbreak Century](https://youtu.be/jbaYUGYOKjQ) by Sunrise Avenue, which is also a barely veiled nod toward Fairytale verse.
> 
> Lastly, a huge thanks to Kellin for reading through this first part (multiple times, no less) and making me reconsider the flow of the story until I truly found my lost voice. Love you!

**come out (of the closet)** [ _verb, idiom_ ]:

to tell your family, friends, or the public your sexual orientation, after previously keeping it a secret

Very few people know about Alessio’s sexuality.

His brother has known for ages. Ever since Alessio was barely in his teens, to be exact, following an embarrassing debacle that included Mirko barging in uninvited and Alessio not being fast enough to switch tabs on his laptop. While Mirko’s initial reaction had been one of confusion rather than anything outright negative, it still took them years to reach a point where they could actually talk about it. They are getting there, though, and of that Alessio is eternally grateful.

His parents have yet to find out, a small miracle in there ever was one after all the awkward silences and sputtered excuses in the wake of Mirko’s discovery.

Alessio isn’t sure why he insists on keeping the truth from his parents, when there is virtually no risk in telling them. His parents love him, and Alessio has no doubt they would come around if he decided to come out to them. And even if they didn’t— it’s not like Alessio lives under their roof anymore.

(That last thought _is_ kind of depressing. And the most likely reason why he has kept his silence this long.)

The bottom line is, the whole idea of _coming out_ feels foreign to him – something out of a teen movie rather than anything related to his own life.

He has willingly come out of the closet exactly once: to his best friend whom he has known since pre-school.

It happened in their final year of secondary school, and he did it mostly for selfish reasons: he needed to know he had someone in his corner, someone he could trust to keep his secret when bottling everything inside himself had become too hard to handle.

The first thing his friend asked was, “Are you telling me because you’ve got hots for me or what?” Once Alessio assured him there was no unrequited crush involved, that had been it.

(“Wouldn’t have blamed you, you know. We both know I’m a catch.”)

They rarely talk about it even now – partly because they usually hang out with a larger group, partly because it is plain awkward – but just knowing he doesn’t _have to_ hide if he doesn't want to has made it worth the risk.

(His first and only girlfriend from lower secondary _probably_ knows.

He didn't volunteer her any information – he hardly knew himself, back then – and she didn't ask, but going through a sexual awakening while in a relationship is something that's bound to get noticed.

She never said anything though, not even after their break up, even though once romance was out of the picture, they actually became close enough friends that Alessio did consider telling her.

He waited for the right moment for years, but in the end he realized it really was too late to bring it up.)

There are no ex-boyfriends to speak of, mostly because Alessio has been spending his free time commuting between Nettuno and Rome for football practice long before dating guys was on his radar.

Not to mention, dating guys while playing football is— no, Alessio is not going there.

“You can’t be the only one, though— right?” Mirko asks him once (or twice, or thrice), being the supportive big brother that he is. “I read somewhere that one in every ten people is gay. So, there must be others. Don’t you have, like, a secret handshake or some shit.”

“Do _you_ have a secret handshake that tells you which girls are into you?” Alessio counters, rolling his eyes for a good measure. His brother means well, he can appreciate that, even if he can be goddamn clueless sometimes. “Even if there were others, _I_ don’t know them. And it’s not like I can just walk up to a guy and ask him out, can I?”

“But there must be a way to tell. How would gays ever hook up otherwise?”

Mirko does have a point, but Alessio is not about to admit it to his face.

“We don’t,” he deadpans instead, and that marks the end of the conversation.

The thing is, Alessio doesn’t know any other gay guys, inside or outside of the football community, and as a result, he has no idea how to approach anyone even if he could somehow tell it was safe.

He knows _of_ other gays, of course; it’s not like he grew up in a vacuum.

He remembers a few out-and-proud guys from school, but they were all hanging out in completely different social circles, and consequently Alessio never exchanged a single word with them.

There is also the couple living a few houses down from his parents’ place, with a well-kept garden and three tiny dogs that look like feather dusters. Alessio has talked to them once, back when Carlotta, no more than a puppy at the time, decided she wanted to make friends with the pack passing by the house. That conversation, however, had focused purely on his playful Labrador, so he is pretty sure that doesn't count either.

By now, Alessio is used to being the only gay in the group, be it among his friends in Nettuno or a football club in Rome or Genoa. In a way, he even finds it easier to function when there are no distractions. (That's what he keeps telling himself, anyways.)

At the same time, however, watching his friends find partners, get engaged, even married— Alessio does find himself wondering why he cannot have that.

He knows he is walking a fine line: on one hand, he is painfully aware his career will be over if anyone ever finds out, but on the other, he is stuck craving for a connection, for _someone_ to come along and assure him it’s all worth the trouble.

He is not looking for anyone, per se. It doesn’t mean the thought doesn’t cross his mind whenever a good-looking guy smiles at him.

The problem is, he is yet to figure out how his hypothetical gaydar works. Sometimes he wonders if it even exists.

**gaydar** [ _noun, slang_ ]:

the supposed ability of homosexuals to recognize one another by means of very slight indications; the intuitive ability of a person to assess others' sexual orientations

In August 2015, at 20 years of age, Alessio transfers to AC Milan.

Geographically it is not a big move, following his loan spell in Sampdoria – Genoa is only a two-hour drive from Milan, after all – but it is an enormous move career-wise. Big money transfer means big responsibility and even bigger expectations, his agent – as well as his father, brother, sports papers, and several TV channels – keep telling him.

Despite the attention, Alessio realizes he feels no pressure. He knows his value, and not for a moment does he stop to think he’s not worth the price tag that was put on him by people far above his pay grade. He is in Milan to do the only thing he knows – to play football – and if he cannot trust that, then what can he?

His first days in the Milanello training centre fly by in a blur.

He gets settled in the dorms, where he shares a room with a former Roma teammate and another fresh Milan transfer, Andrea Bertolacci. They don't know each other than well, but it is a relief to see a familiar face.

He meets his new bosses, new teammates, new trainers – and old ones, as Mihajlović coached him also at Sampdoria. Every morning he is greeted by the media and fans at the gates, and the MilanTV cameras follow him even inside the compound, a constant reminder that this is his life now.

A few days into this new life, he is introduced to his new captain. It is the one moment that sticks with him, a brief respite in the flurry of excitement and unending movement.

Alessio grew up watching players larger than life; on the TV, in the stadiums, and finally on the same pitch. He has been captained by the legend himself, Francesco Totti. No, not only captained, but _mentored_. Carlotta will always remind Alessio of the Roma captain who gave him his first puppy, back when he was not much more than a child himself.

In comparison, his first meeting with Riccardo Montolivo might be considered underwhelming. For Alessio, it is anything but.

He has met Montolivo — “Just Riccardo is fine,” — before, of course; he has played against him on many occasions since his league debut and watched him with the national team long before that.

At a first glance, Montolivo — “I told you: _Riccardo_. Or Monto or Ricky is okay too, I guess,” — doesn’t give off the kind of authoritative aura that makes natural leaders like Totti, Buffon, or even De Rossi immediately stand out in the crowd. His presence doesn’t demand the attention, and from the way he holds himself, Alessio can tell he doesn’t particularly enjoy it, either.

Maybe that’s why his first encounter with Montolivo – no, _Riccardo_ , he corrects himself – feels downright comfortable, at least compared to most of the other new authority figures in his life.

Alessio finds himself relaxing before he even knows why. Riccardo is soft-spoken and takes care not to push into Alessio’s personal space, and yet he still meets Alessio’s gaze squarely, his smile warm and genuine, not a hint of pretence in his demeanour. His palms are smooth and soft when Alessio takes his offered hand, and his handshake is firm, controlled, and it ends exactly at the right time to remain strictly professional.

This man _is_ a leader, Alessio realizes immediately. A silent one, maybe an understated one, but a leader no less.

Riccardo holds Alessio’s gaze for a second longer after he releases his hand, and Alessio finds himself unable to look away, the blue eyes drawing him in. If Alessio’s breath catches for a fraction of that second, he will never admit it to anyone but himself.

The moment is over as soon as it begins. Riccardo leaves Alessio with another mellow, “Welcome to Milan,” before he jogs over to some of their older teammates on the training grounds and allows himself to be scooped into a bear-hug by one of them. As he grumbles something inaudible and takes a step back to create himself a semblance of personal space, Alessio experiences something he never has before.

For the first time in his admittedly short adult life, Alessio looks at another footballer and _wonders_.

**attraction** [ _noun, uncountable_ ]:

the feeling of liking someone, especially sexually, because of the way they look or behave

Alessio doesn’t ask.

Before he even has a chance to properly consider it, he has convinced himself there is no point, because there is no way he’s right - it’s just a hunch, after all, and he has no concrete proof to back it up. And even on the off chance that he _is_ right, it’s not like he can simply out and ask something so personal, especially from someone he barely knows.

He _wants_ to ask, though; the mere thought of not being the only one is almost too tempting to pass up. The small voice in the back of his head is insistent, a constant stream of thought reminding him he will never win if he refuses to play.

In the end, despite making no conscious decision one way or another, Alessio finds himself watching Riccardo, unconsciously noting down and cataloguing every gesture or word, waiting for a confirmation that never comes. It takes him a few weeks to realize that he is doing it, and then another couple of months before he admits even to himself that the way he pays attention to his captain is different from the rest of his teammates.

“It’s just wistful thinking,” Alessio tells Rocco one night, and the bulldog only tilts his head in confusion, “I’ve been in the closet for too long – I’ve started seeing hints where there aren’t any.”

Rocco whines insolently and pats over to his bowl, sitting down next to it with an expectant look on his face. Alessio wishes he hadn't left Carlotta at his parents’ house, because the Labrador has always been more willing to play along with his ramblings.

At least voicing his doubts helps him put things into perspective, despite the unreceptive audience.

Even after months of watching and wondering, Alessio is the first to admit he doesn’t really know Riccardo. They rarely spend time together outside of club responsibilities – why would they? Riccardo is ten years his senior, with his own friends and interests – and when they do, it’s always with a bunch of teammates tagging along.

Neither of them is particularly outspoken in the dressing room either, so initiating a conversation between training sessions doesn’t come naturally. They do exchange a few words here and there, but never anything personal, nothing that would be enough to sate Alessio’s ever-growing curiosity.

Riccardo is married – to a woman, that goes without saying – but doesn’t have any children _(yet)_ , that much Alessio knows.

That fact alone should be enough to convince him that his non-existent gaydar must be broken. However, the voice in his head reminds him many gay people marry, either to convince the world or themselves that they’re straight. It proves nothing, the voice argues, and Alessio is only half-surprised at how easily he tends to agree.

Because at the end of the day, there is still something about Riccardo that just doesn’t _fit_. Alessio cannot for the death of him tell what that something is, even if he knows he is looking right at it, and no one else seems to have noticed there’s anything amiss.

He even makes a list, because that usually helps him think – helps him see patterns he might miss otherwise.

The first column on that list consists of one simple word: _married_.

On the other column he writes:

  * _always dresses well_
  * _has gay friends_
  * _smells nice_



Then he crosses out that column, because he realizes none of those things prove anything. If they did, half of Alessio’s own friends might as well be gay.

Instead, he writes down, ‘ _never makes fun of gays_ ,’ and as soon as the words are on the paper, he knows he has found the missing piece. This is it, this is what he has been looking for!

It is part of the football culture, no matter what club he joins. Once the cameras are off, there is lots of thoughtless banter flying around the dressing room: innocent things, most of them, but also things that make Alessio fidget in his seat, self-conscious and uncomfortable. He knows it’s all in a jest, but it doesn’t make the words hurt any less.

At the stadiums it’s even worse, with casual homophobic insults from the stands being more a rule than an exception, from both their own fans and the opponents’.

It is never aimed at Alessio directly, and he has learned to filter out most of it – you need to have a thick skin to survive the world of professional football with a secret like his. Or to survive the world in general.

Alessio has never heard Riccardo take part in the dressing room banter when it turns to sexuality – on the contrary. Alessio has seen it many times, the way he would bite his lips together and look down, focusing on tying his shoelaces, pulling up his socks, shuffling through his bag…

On the pitch, Riccardo pays little mind to the insults, homophobic or not, not even when they are aimed right at him. (They often are. It makes Alessio’s blood boil.) On the other hand, he always has a kind word or a calming pat on the back saved for when someone else is struggling with the audience behaviour.

Alessio remembers one match in particular: a gentle brush of a hand against the small of his back, right when the chants were becoming overwhelming. The touch was gone before he could react to it, but the distraction had been just enough to get his head back in the game.

It’s not a big deal, Alessio reminds himself. Riccardo is only acting like any captain would. No one else seems to pay any mind to it, not in the dressing room or on the pitch. It’s only Alessio. So how on earth could it be real?

Alessio looks at his very short list, his previous excitement dying down as he comes back to his senses. _It doesn’t mean anything._ He rips the paper into tiny pieces and discards them on his way to fill Rocco’s bowl.

The way Rocco looks at him, wholly unimpressed, when Alessio finally places the bowl in front on him, makes Alessio feel like even the man’s best friend is judging him. And not without a reason, either.

(Only much later does he stop to wonder when exactly did he first notice Riccardo’s inarguably nice smell.)

**connection** [ _noun_ ]:

the act of connecting; the state of being joined or connected in some way

“Jesus Christ, don’t you ever shut up?!”

The outburst takes everyone by surprise, including Alessio himself.

Alessio rarely raises his voice off the pitch. Especially not to his teammates. _Especially_ not because of some lame joke he immediately recognizes as harmless banter rather than a personal insult.

Alessio isn’t even sure who started the whole thing – might have been Mexés – but it doesn’t make much of a difference when Alessio knows most of his teammates could have said the same thing without giving it another thought. They have done it before, after all, and will definitely do it again in the future.

Finding the culprit doesn’t even matter, if he is being honest with himself, because Alessio is much angrier at himself for losing his cool than at his teammates for whatever they might or might not have said after the final whistle.

Alessio avoids eye-contact all the way to the dressing room, and thankfully everyone else seems content to leave him be. He just needs a few moments to clear his head, no big deal, and then they can all go back to how things always are.

If there is less banter than normally, he doesn’t let it bother him. Instead, he goes through the motions like on autopilot: undress, take a shower, get dressed, pack his things, follow the team through the tunnels and into the bus, take a seat farthest away from the loudmouths at the back—

His self-imposed exile comes to an abrupt end when someone sits next to him – Alessio doesn’t need to look over to know who it is, the soft scent of Riccardo’s coconut shower gel invading his senses ahead of the man himself. Abbiati and Abate always tease the captain about his ‘girly’ smell, asking if he packed his wife’s shampoo by accident, but Alessio likes it. Maybe he is living up to the stereotype, after all?

Riccardo doesn’t say anything at first, eyes trained on his phone as he quickly taps in a message after another. Alessio finally relaxes as the bus takes off from the stadium, relieved Riccardo is apparently not about to scold him. He is just _there_ , casually showing his support like he always does, by comfortably existing in the same space with Alessio. It is moments like this that Alessio can truly see why Riccardo is the one wearing the armband.

“It’s not personal. You know that, right?” Riccardo is still not looking at Alessio, although his fingers on the touchscreen have stopped. He waits until Alessio hums an affirmative, obviously giving him the option of ignoring him in case he doesn’t feel like talking – Alessio doesn’t, but he can make an exception when it’s Riccardo. Like he would ever turn down an excuse to find out more about his captain.

“We’re all on edge. It’s easy to lash out when things aren’t going our way,” Riccardo continues when Alessio offers no protests. He pockets the phone and his eyes finally flicker towards Alessio, briefly meeting his gaze before opting to look just past him instead. “But you can’t let it get to you. No matter what. The moment you let them see how much it bothers you— you’re practically handing them the one thing that can truly hurt you.”

He is talking like he _knows_. Like he knows about Alessio, but more importantly, like he knows how it feels. Alessio is so stunned that for a moment he forgets he is supposed to be keeping a secret, grumbling out his response before he has a chance to consider it, “It’s easy for you to say. It doesn’t bother you.”

Riccardo huffs out a sound that might be a chuckle, except there is no humour in it. There is a sudden burst of laughter booming from the backseat, momentarily drawing both their attention away from the conversation. Unexpectedly, a crowded team bus might be the most private place to have this talk – no one is paying them any mind, not in this ruckus.

“It’s not _easy_ for me,” Riccardo’s voice draws Alessio’s attention back to the moment, “far from it, in fact. Hell, I used to play with _Cassano_ of all people! Trust me, I’ve been there, and I know it sucks.” Now the pale blue eyes are focused on Alessio’s, and Alessio couldn’t look away even if we wanted to. “Know what sucks even more, though? That standing up for yourself is only going to make it worse. I’ve been there too, wouldn’t recommend.”

Alessio is feeling light-headed. Riccardo knows. He _must_ know. There's no other explanation.

Alessio releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He feels a piece in his throat, hears his own heartbeat in his ears, and for a moment he is convinced he is going to throw up. He vaguely remembers this is exactly how he felt when Mirko walked in on him all those years ago. He licks his chapped lips and quickly looks down at his hands, because that feels like a much safer choice than Riccardo’s face.

But if Riccardo knows, then that would also mean Alessio was right all along – Riccardo _is_ like him, despite the wife, despite Alessio’s insistence that his gaydar is broken, despite never finding any evidence to support his theory. A bubble of excitement is dancing inside Alessio’s belly, a tiny spark of hope he has never dared to acknowledge before now.

It takes all Alessio’s courage to look up, just a little peek at his captain’s face. Riccardo’s focus is back on his phone, typing in another message. Probably to the wife. Alessio’s stomach sinks as the old doubts come crashing over him.

It is the perfect opportunity to just _ask_. Riccardo wouldn’t lie to him, Alessio is sure of that, and he is probably the one person on the team that wouldn’t be offended even if Alessio’s assumption turns out to be wrong.

And yet, Alessio still finds himself hesitating, because suddenly he realizes that if he _is_ wrong, he doesn’t want to know it. He doesn’t want to lose that unfamiliar feeling of hope he only just discovered.

But he cannot stay silent forever, either. He must say something, he needs to acknowledge what Riccardo shared with him.

Alessio waits for Riccardo to finish his message before he speaks up, unsure what it is he wants to say before the words are out.

“You make it seem so easy. How do you do that?”

Riccardo’s head snaps up, eyes wide in surprise, like he hadn’t expected Alessio to carry on the conversation. Alessio is stuck between wanting to shy away from his gaze and never wanting to look away. For the first time, it really hits him how beautiful Riccardo’s eyes are – large, with long lashes and softest shade of light blue; but more importantly, they are honest, open, and for some unfathomable reason remind Alessio of _home_.

“I’ve got ten years of practice over you.”

A corner of Riccardo’s mouth lifts into a half-smile, and he reaches out, his warm palm landing on the back of Alessio’s neck. It is nothing more than an encouraging gesture, not unlike ones from his previous captains, but for Alessio it means the world.

Because this is Riccardo.

Because Riccardo _knows_.

“I can’t promise it’s going to get better. It won’t. Or at least it hasn’t, not for me,” — how can such depressing words feel so hopeful? — “but you do get used to it, after a while.”

Riccardo’s hand lingers on Alessio’s neck, the touch sending tiny shivers down his spine. Alessio imagines he can feel the cool metal of Riccardo’s wedding ring, but at the same time he knows his subconscious is most likely just adding details he knows are there.

Alessio’s more pessimistic side is reminding him that obviously things cannot be as hard for Riccardo as they are for him – Riccardo is married, after all. Once you have that ring, people will easily look past a careless word, a too long look, or a lingering touch.

That ring is all Alessio needs to know Riccardo is not like him.

But that half-smile and that warm hand sliding from his neck to his shoulder, giving it one more squeeze before moving back to Riccardo’s own lap— those things are enough to convince Alessio of the opposite. Alessio has never before met someone who actually understood what he is feeling, and he is not about to refuse that connection when it is offered to him, no matter how shaky.

“Thanks, captain,” Alessio responds with a shy smile. He bumps their shoulders together as he takes out his own phone, just so he can have something to occupy his hands with. “Would you like to— no, never mind. Just, thanks. I appreciate it. Really.”

Riccardo is still looking at Alessio when he steals another glance a few minutes later. Alessio’s face feels hot, and he wonders if it means he is blushing. He has never been the blushing type – but then again, how does he even know what type he is, when until now he has never felt like he could be himself around his teammates?

“Anyways, if you ever need to talk – get anything off your chest –,” Riccardo makes a gesture with his hand that says nothing at all, “you know where to find me.”

He smiles at Alessio and Alessio finds himself returning the smile, his earlier anger all but forgotten.

**assumed** [ _adjective_ ]:

accepted as real or true without proof; taken as your right without justification

If there is one thing Alessio hates about playing for a big-name club, it's the big sponsor functions.

He doesn’t mind the small events – photo shoots, advertisements, meeting kids, signing some shirts… That part is all in good fun, especially when he gets to do it with someone he gets along well with, like Antonelli, Niang, or De Sciglio.

Or Riccardo, but that should go without saying.

Riccardo has become his favourite partner in crime as the season has progressed, a fact that hasn’t gone unnoticed by the club either, if the number of events they are assigned to together is any indication. Turns out that once you get to know each other, a ten-year age gap doesn’t weigh nearly as much as a similar dry sense of humour, mutual dislike for squad shenanigans— or a shared secret of one’s sexuality.

“To think I could be home, cuddling Rocco and playing FIFA,” Alessio grumbles to Riccardo, whom he found by the champagne fountain. He is no good at these big events – while he is more than capable of putting his game face on and charming some company executives, he would always much rather just hide and let his teammates do the talking.

Riccardo rolls his eyes and hands a him glass of champagne, not even bothering to tell Alessio he has heard the same complaints a dozen times before. “I’m sure your dog will survive one day without his cuddling buddy.”

“Not the point.” Alessio accepts the glass and takes a tiniest sip. It wouldn’t do to get drunk in front of the big money. “He’s not the one who needs the cuddles – I am.”

Riccardo makes a face at how Alessio refers to Rocco like he's human. Riccardo doesn’t like dogs; it has been one of the biggest obstacles their friendship has faced to date.

“Don’t you frown at me!” Alessio cannot help but laugh out loud. “If you actually came over and met Rocco, you’d be referring to him as ‘his royal highness’ too!”

“Doubt it,” Riccardo deadpans and rounds around the fountain until he locates a glass of non-alcoholic sparkling wine to accompany the champagne glass in his other hand. “You keep talking about them like they’re your kids or something. It’s kind of creepy.” The twinkle in his eye tells Alessio he is only teasing, though.

“You just wait. Sooner or later, Rocco and Carlotta _will_ win you over.”

“If you say so.” Riccardo’s eyes are sweeping over the crowd, obviously looking for something – or someone, more likely. “Okay, kiddo, time to stop hiding. C’mon, I’ll introduce you to Cristina.”

Alessio’s stomach sinks, and for a moment he cannot quite understand why.

He has never met Riccardo’s wife before, only seen her in passing at the stadium or in photos on Riccardo’s social media feeds. Honestly, it’s about time he met her face to face, with the end of the season approaching at a surprising rate.

They find Cristina talking to some executives, stunning in her dark blue dress, five-inch heels, and long dark hair falling down her back. Alessio can immediately tell why Riccardo doesn’t seem to mind the gala evenings nearly as much as Alessio does – with Cristina at his arm, who would even notice him?

Cristina is also pregnant. _Very_ pregnant.

The sinking feeling is back, ten-fold.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. Riccardo and Cristina have been married for almost two years, and in a relationship for many years longer. It makes sense, for a couple in their thirties to have children – Alessio knows many people his own age who already have or at least talk about having a family.

Thinking back, Alessio even has a vague memory of hearing about Riccardo and Cristina expecting their first child. It is not something that has ever come up with Riccardo directly – more likely he has caught a piece of conversation Riccardo has had with Abate or someone else with kids of their own, and then promptly proceeded to forget because Riccardo having kids didn’t fit his mental image of their captain.

Alessio can feel bile rising up his throat even as he tries to smile at Cristina and introduce himself. Cristina is super nice, just what you would expect from a woman who has shared her life with Riccardo for nearly a decade and counting – for some reason this makes Alessio dislike the situation even more.

There is a part of Alessio that’s angry at Riccardo for not telling him. He thought they were friends, even if they rarely talk about anything of real importance. Even the topic of Alessio’s sexuality is something neither of them has tried to approach again, not even when Riccardo has successfully talked Alessio out of his bad moods following particularly bad heckling during a match. But this? This is something you cannot keep a secret, isn’t it?

Maybe Alessio has completely misjudged Riccardo. Maybe Riccardo doesn’t get him, after all.

Maybe Riccardo considers their friendship too superficial for something this personal.

Or maybe Riccardo doesn’t even consider Alessio a friend, just a charity case of some sort.

Alessio can taste the bile on the back of his tongue, and he can barely get the words out as he quickly excuses himself before practically running away from Riccardo and Cristina.

He finds the closest bathroom and retches above the toilet with little success – nothing comes out, but now his throat is sore and the sickening taste on his tongue is stronger than ever.

He doesn’t even know why he is so upset. They are not _that_ close, not like Alessio is with his group in Nettuno, or how Riccardo seems to be with some of their teammates. A shared secret can only take a relationship so far, even if that secret is as huge as Alessio’s.

For the first time since the talk on the team bus, Alessio is seriously doubting their connection.

It takes him around fifteen minutes to collect himself enough to re-join the event. He finds Antonelli and Abate sitting at one of the more remote tables and sinks down with a heavy sigh that attracts curious looks from his teammates.

“Tough night?” Abate asks with a sympathetic smile.

“You could say that,” Alessio concedes, but offers no further explanation.

From the corner of his eye, he can see beaming Riccardo with Cristina at his arm. One of his hands is resting on his wife’s round belly even as he talks to Mr Galliani, and as soon as he stops talking, he leans in to kiss her neck gently, in a way that is completely genuine and leaves no room for assumptions.

Anger flares inside Alessio’s chest, so quick and hot that it takes him completely by surprise. It is not aimed at Riccardo, or even Alessio’s own stupidity. It is all directed at Cristina, this voiceless, shapeless kind of rage that makes absolutely no sense. Why on earth would he be angry at Cristina, whom he only met today, and who has nothing to do with Alessio and Riccardo’s crumbling friendship?

All Cristina has ever done was fall in love with Riccardo, back when Alessio was still kicking a football in the park outside his parents’ house, blissfully unaware of things like romance. How can Alessio blame her for doing the same thing he has been doing himself ever since—?

The realization doesn’t come as a shock. Alessio doesn’t feel like throwing up again, and he doesn’t experience the immediate need to get out of the building. It is almost anticlimactic in its simplicity.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath, and none of his teammates around the table seem to catch it.

This is so typical of him. _Of course_ he would fall for the one person on his team with whom he doesn’t have to pretend to be anything that he is not. He hasn’t changed a bit from that stupid teenager who would catch a handsome man smiling at him, only to create a silly fantasy crush inside his head.

Fortunately, a big sponsor gala is the perfect place to be when trying to avoid someone.

He spends the rest of the evening circling the exhibition hall, carefully making sure he knows where Riccardo is at all times, just so he can be elsewhere. He smiles at the cameras and laughs at jokes he pays only half a mind to, doing his best to blend into the background without showing that’s what he is trying to do.

He cannot help stealing glances at Riccardo and his wife, though. The jealousy is unbearable, but even worse is the realization that him and Riccardo are not the same. He had been so wrong.

He never asked Riccardo what he was, he only assumed. Now he is regretting that decision.

**unrequited** [ _adjective_ ]:

(of a feeling, especially love) not returned

Riccardo misses one day of practice when the baby is born, but the following day he is back in Milanello, with dark shadows under his eyes and a smile so bright that Alessio finds himself smiling back without meaning to.

Everyone can see their captain’s head is not in the game during the morning session. And who could blame him, really? Alessio has never considered the possibility of having a family of his own, and frankly, he cannot imagine himself ever being in the same situation – but looking at how unabashedly _happy_ Riccardo is, he can just about understand the appeal.

He runs away after practice, before Riccardo has a chance to wave his phone and the numerous photos of his new-born daughter in his face.

Only once he has locked himself safely inside his room does Alessio give himself a moment to think about what he is doing. Bertolacci fortunately sticks with the rest of the squad, probably heading to the common area for a round of pool, so he gets the room all for himself.

He has been avoiding Riccardo for weeks now. Ever since the sponsor gala. Ever since he figured out why he had been so stuck on the idea of Riccardo being into guys. Ever since he realized his silly little crush never stood a chance.

In truth, avoiding Riccardo hasn’t been all that difficult, when more often than not they are surrounded by the rest of the team: all Alessio had to do was make sure they never ended up in a situation where they would be tempted to have a private conversation. They weren’t that close to begin with, after all, so it’s not like Riccardo would notice the difference. On the contrary, the captain is probably relieved he doesn’t have to serve as Alessio’s personal safety blanket anymore.

The thought doesn’t make Alessio feel any better – the exact opposite might be closer to the truth, because despite what he keeps telling himself, he really liked having Riccardo as a friend. (Or a safety blanket. Whatever.) He liked the feeling of having someone validate his feelings and experiences, even if they often stopped just short of voicing the facts.

He _misses_ Riccardo.

“If only I didn’t like him so much,” Alessio whispers into the empty room, so softly it is hardly more than a wordless sigh. It is the first time he has said it out loud: he likes Riccardo. He has liked Riccardo since their first meeting last summer, and it has only gotten worse as the season progressed and he actually got to know the man. “If only I didn’t like him, then at least I could have him as a friend.”

 _You still could. No one’s stopping you._ The voice in the back of his head. The voice that has recently been mainly the unreasonable one: the one insisting Alessio goes for it, talks to Riccardo, opens up, stops fucking around and just says what he is feeling— yes, that annoying voice is suddenly being the voice of reason.

Rationally thinking, Alessio knows the only thing stopping him is Alessio himself. On Riccardo’s part, there has never been anything beyond friendship – if even that – between them, so in that sense nothing has changed. The only thing that _has_ changed is that Alessio finally got his head out of his ass and started looking at the bigger picture.

The more he thinks about it, the more frustrated Alessio becomes with himself. He is a grown man, so why is he still acting like a teenager who cannot figure out his own feelings? Instead of feeling jealous, hurt, betrayed even, he should be happy for Riccardo – for his _friend_ , for the person he cares about.

Just as Alessio makes up his mind to get up and go find Riccardo – ask him if they can have lunch together perhaps, maybe even agree to look at the baby pictures – there's a soft knock on the door.

“Alessio, you in there?”

The sound of Riccardo’s voice is all it takes for Alessio to lose his nerve. The too familiar piece gets stuck in his throat again as he drags himself to the door and unlocks it, letting his captain in without a word.

_He never was available. He never was like you. You should be happy if he still wants to be your friend._

This inner mantra does nothing to ease Alessio’s nervousness. It is likely something that will only pass with time. Like his feelings for Riccardo.

Riccardo strides in and stops in the middle of the room, waiting in silence until Alessio has closed the door after him. “Are you okay? You disappeared so fast I didn’t have a chance to talk to you earlier.”

Gracious as ever, Riccardo makes no attempt to point out Alessio has been avoiding him far longer than just this morning. The unsaid words hang in the air between them regardless.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Alessio blurts out before he has a chance to consider his words.

Riccardo raises one eyebrow that could be either curious or sceptical, but he says nothing.

Alessio fakes a cough to give himself half a second to run through his mental storage of emergency lies, all the while avoiding Riccardo’s gaze. “It’s just a headache. Needed to get away from the noise. I’m feeling much better already.” Good enough.

“You sure?” Riccardo’s voice holds genuine concern and it pulls Alessio’s gaze back to his ridiculously beautiful eyes. It is not helping – now he is just feeling bad for acting like an ass for so long. “Maybe you should see the physician? Make sure it’s nothing serious before tomorrow’s game.”

“No,” Alessio says, probably too quickly, “I’m fine now, really. Some lunch and I’ll be good as new.”

“If you say so.” Riccardo gives him a half-shrug and then he is smiling again, that same dreamy smile he was wearing all through the morning practice. After successfully fighting down the initial spark of annoyance, Alessio must admit it’s actually kind of adorable.

He sits down on his bed, leaning his back against the wall and closing his eyes. It's mostly to avoid looking at Riccardo, because the sight is making his insides do cartwheels.

After a moment’s consideration, Riccardo sits next to him, the mattress dipping under his weight. He probably chose to do it because Bertolacci’s bed is unmade and covered with random items of clothing, while Alessio’s is neatly made, but that doesn’t stop Alessio’s heart rate speeding up, like after a running drill, except without the shortness of breath.

There is a long, uncomfortable silence, before Riccardo seems to decide the only way forward is to force the matter. “I always wanted to be a dad.” His tone is hesitant, even though Alessio can still hear the smile in his voice. “Much more than a husband, or a boyfriend, or even a captain. Even when I was just a kid myself, I always dreamed of having a big family with lots of kids.”

Alessio suddenly realizes Riccardo has never really talked about himself like this when they are alone. In fact, even though Alessio considers Riccardo in many ways to be the person in Milan who knows him the best, there is still a whole world of information they don’t know about each other.

“I’d imagined it so many times,” Riccardo continues, the words falling off his lips carelessly now that he got himself started, rambling, “but then when it happened, and I was holding Mariam for the first time and— it’s not something you can imagine, you know. She’s so tiny and beautiful and fragile. And I made her. _We_ made her, with Cristina. This new life, in my hands, and it’s up to us to raise her and make sure she’s safe and she won’t have to go through all that pain and confusion I had to—”

Alessio is looking at Riccardo now, and Riccardo cuts off his ramble mid-sentence, his cheeks tinted pink.

“Doesn’t it scare you? Being responsible for a whole new life?” Alessio asks, suddenly intrigued, because what Riccardo described— Alessio would be terrified.

“Of course it does,” Riccardo answers with a soft chuckle, “but it’s not like I can back out now, can I?”

“I guess not,” Alessio agrees, mostly because he cannot think of anything else to say. There is a part of him that notices Riccardo has never looked this beautiful before. Maybe fatherhood suits him. Another flash of bitterness courses through him before he can stop himself.

Riccardo is studying him with a raised eyebrow – curious this time more than sceptical, maybe a bit confused – and only belatedly does Alessio realize it might be because Alessio is staring at him.

“The weirdest thing is—,” Riccardo says with a sigh, leaning his temple against the wall, holding Alessio’s gaze, “no, not weird. Just, a thing, I guess, is that for the longest time I thought I could never have it. I was in love with this guy – a teammate – for years. I was _so_ in love and he was straight, so I didn’t even have a chance, and still I was sure he was the one and I’d never get over him.”

Alessio is holding his breath, afraid that if he as much as utters a sound, Riccardo will stop talking. And he wants Riccardo to keep talking, because while there has been lots of insinuations and loaded silences, neither of them has ever addressed their sexuality out loud.

Until this very moment, Alessio had almost managed to convince himself that Riccardo is, in fact, straight.

Riccardo’s eyes flicker down, and Alessio’s follow, looking as Riccardo consciously loosens his fists in his lap, splaying his palms against his thighs. At the sound of Riccardo’s voice, Alessio looks up again. Riccardo is still looking at his hands.

“I’m bi, so you might think it’s easy enough to just find a nice girl and settle down, pretend I’m like them.” Riccardo’s gaze flickers up, like sensing Alessio’s eyes on him. “But I was so confused. I didn’t have anyone to talk to, and for the longest time I had no idea that being bi was even a thing. All I knew was that I loved him and that I could never tell anyone because then I couldn’t play football.

“Even after I met Cristina and fell in love with her, I kept expecting something to go wrong – for her to find out and leave me, for me to realize I wasn’t really into her, for someone else to come along and tell me I couldn’t be the person I wanted to be…”

Riccardo bites his lip and shakes his head with a sheepish laugh. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear all that, do you?”

“No, I do,” Alessio blurts out, eyes wide and cheeks heating up, “I mean, if you want to talk about it, then I’d be happy to listen. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I hope we are,” Riccardo whispers, a gentle smile rising on his lips. “You know, you were one of the first people I wanted to call after Mariam was born, because I really don’t have anyone aside from Cristina who knows about—you know, all that.” Another shake of head, another soft chuckle. It makes a few butterflies soar inside Alessio’s stomach. “But I wasn’t sure if you’d appreciate it. We haven’t really talked recently, and I thought maybe you’d grown tired of me always keeping you at arm’s length and speaking nonsense without saying anything at all – sorry about that, by the way. Old habits die hard.”

“Don’t worry, I get it,” Alessio responds, and he means it. “Thanks for telling me.”

He wonders if this is his cue to tell Riccardo about himself, but then he decides it’s not the right moment for it – not when Riccardo is still so overwhelmed by the birth of his daughter. Not to mention Riccardo already knows about Alessio’s sexuality. With that out there, how much more is there to tell?

“Can I see the baby pictures, then?” Alessio asks instead, and the way Riccardo’s face lights up, he knows it is the right call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Alessio's dogs are a treasure and everyone should know it](https://montosmadman.tumblr.com/post/189276665697)
> 
> _30/7/2020 UPDATE: Minor edits in wording and grammar. Added like two sentences to improve the overall flow._


	2. in between

**band-aid** [ _noun, informal_ ]:

a temporary, superficial remedy for a serious or complex problem

“I never really figured out how to approach men,” Alessio admits, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder as Rocco pushes his way into his lap, demanding attention and belly-rubs, “or even to tell which ones are safe to approach in the first place, you know?” – Riccardo hums an affirmative on the other end of the line, urging him to go on – “I always figured it was easier to just—not to bother, I guess? Does that make any sense?”

“It does. And I’d wager you’re not the only one feeling like that, either.” Alessio could swear he hears a smile in Riccardo’s voice, and it causes a familiar ache in his chest. He wants to see that smile. Their summer break has barely started, and he already misses seeing Riccardo on a daily basis.

It feels oddly liberating to talk about his sexuality like this, even if it's only over the phone; never before has Alessio felt like he is truly being heard, without his feelings being trivialized or questioned. Mirko does his best, bless him, but it’s not the same as having someone who understands what he is going through. With Riccardo, there is no need to explain or justify himself, because Riccardo has been where he is now.

On the muted TV screen, Italy is playing Belgium – their first match in the EURO 2016 – and on the couch in Alessio’s parents’ living room, Carlotta takes her chance to pounce on Alessio’s other side and lick his ear. Alessio lets out an involuntary yelp and pushes his hand between the cold snout and his head, his palm becoming the new target of her affections.

“Anyways, there you have it: I haven’t even kissed a guy.” Alessio’s cheeks heat up at the admission, and he fully expects Riccardo to laugh at him – he is 21, relatively good looking (“ _Very_ good looking,” he has been corrected too many times to count), and earns millions annually, so he really has no excuses aside from his shyness and inability to make the first move.

Riccardo hums out a thoughtful noise, not a sign of laughter to be heard. Alessio immediately feels silly for even expecting it, because when has Riccardo ever made fun of him? Isn’t that one of the reasons Alessio fell for him in the first place?

Alessio can hear the commentator’s voice carrying over from Riccardo’s end, confirming he is also watching the game. Alessio makes no comment on it, despite Riccardo’s earlier claims that he had called Alessio to get his mind off the match.

Alessio can only imagine how he must feel, knowing he could have been out there with the national team was it not for the injury right before squad selections. Riccardo can insist all he wants that he is used to it, but Alessio knows from personal experience that you never get used to being left out.

“And do you want to meet someone?” Riccardo asks after a pronounced silence, his voice flippant as though talking about the weather, but Alessio can tell he is weighing every word. “Because if you do, I could introduce you to some of my friends. Well, more Cristina’s than mine, really. People outside the football circuit.”

Alessio doesn’t respond immediately, which prompts Riccardo to carry on, more rushed now, “I mean, I don’t know if you’d actually have that much in common, to be honest. Maybe they’re not even your type. But at least you wouldn’t have to worry about not knowing who to approach, right? That’d be one obstacle gone. And who knows, maybe it could work out.”

_If only Riccardo knew._

Alessio does consider the offer for a moment – it wouldn’t hurt, dating someone outside of his usual circles, (dating someone, period), maybe even getting his mind off Riccardo for a bit – but then he realizes there is only one answer. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. I don’t think dating's my first priority right now.”

What he doesn’t say is that dating anyone right now, with his feelings for Riccardo still so close to the surface, would be an act of self-deception that could only lead to drama and heartache for all parties involved.

Riccardo only hums out a soft, “Is that so?” in response. Alessio wonders if it's relief he hears in that simple sentence, or if it’s just his own wistful thinking.

“What about you? Did you ever actually hook up with a guy?” Alessio asks quickly, before Riccardo has a chance to push the issue. “Before you met Cristina, I mean. Like, I know there was the unrequited thing with your teammate at some point, but you’ve never mentioned anything beyond that.”

“Maybe I left it out for a reason.” There is an immediate change in Riccardo’s tone. Alessio is taken aback by the curt response; the sudden iciness in Riccardo’s voice is unfamiliar, something Alessio cannot remember ever being directed at him. It makes him feel like apologizing, even though he didn’t ask anything Riccardo hasn’t asked him before.

But before he can open his mouth for the apology, Riccardo is talking again, his voice now apologetic, even embarrassed, “I’m sorry, Alessio; I didn’t mean to snap.” Riccardo’s chuckle sounds forced, but at least the familiar warmth is back in his voice. “It’s just a sensitive topic, is all. I guess it’s safe to say I never was very good at coping with being alone.”

“You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Alessio is fast to assure him, although his curiosity is piqued now. It feels like the more he finds out about Riccardo, the more there remains to discover. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep.”

He pushes Carlotta’s invading snout away from his face again, and finally she settles down next to him, content with him scratching behind her ears, at least for the time being.

“Don’t worry, you didn’t. It’s only fair I should talk about those things, too.” Riccardo chuckles again, but there is no amusement in it, only self-depreciation. “I did go out with a fair number of people, back in the day. Never anything serious, not even close. Just, a warm body to make me forget about how miserable I was, you know?”

Alessio _doesn’t_ know, having never been drawn to sleeping around even in his loneliest moments, but he nods anyways, silently asking Riccardo to keep going.

Belatedly, he realizes Riccardo cannot see his nod, and hurries to add a half-hearted, “Sure.”

If there is a part of him that’s jealous of all those ‘warm bodies’ who got to be with Riccardo in a way Alessio never will, he manages to push it on the back burner. He will have more than enough time to feel sorry for himself when he is not on the line with his captain.

“It could’ve become quite a mess if any of it ever hit the press, but at least I got lucky on that regard,” Riccardo continues, his tone carefully flat. Alessio finds himself holding his breath, anxious to hear more while at the same time almost hoping Riccardo would stop. “Still, I was being reckless, and if the shit had hit the fan, it would’ve been all on me. And it never really made me feel any better, anyways. Figures, huh?”

It hits Alessio that Riccardo is probably still mad at himself of letting things get so out of hand. The Riccardo he knows is always in control, it is hard to consolidate this new information with that image. He remembers Riccardo telling him, _“I’ve got ten years of practice over you,”_ and it suddenly makes more sense than ever. Riccardo has made his mistakes, learned from them, while Alessio is barely getting started.

 _Riccardo_ is Alessio’s biggest mistake. Or at least he could be, if Alessio is not careful.

“And did you ever tell—?” Alessio cuts himself off before he can finish the question, because he knows he is overstepping again, but Riccardo catches his meaning regardless.

“The teammate? No, absolutely not. I didn’t want to risk our friendship when there was nothing to be gained from it. It was easier to just keep doing what I was doing.” Riccardo is back to his flippant tone, and Alessio has a distinct feeling he is being lied to.

“Even if what you were doing was hurting you?” Alessio’s voice is so low he wonders if Riccardo can even hear him.

Maybe Riccardo is not lying to Alessio, but to _himself_ , desperate even now to believe he made the right choice by not confessing his feelings when it mattered. Alessio cannot see it, how it could ever be the easier option to keep up the vicious cycle instead of owning up to his unrequited love. A good friend would have understood, and then Riccardo could have moved on in a way he never did.

Then again, maybe it’s Alessio who is lying to himself. After all, isn’t Alessio doing the same thing now, hiding behind their friendship instead of facing his own feelings? How is Riccardo not telling his teammate any different from Alessio not telling Riccardo?

_I’m not hurting anyone. That’s the difference._

Alessio can almost believe it.

Riccardo is silent for a long time, and all Alessio can hear is the steady stream of TV commentary from the other end as Italy attacks on his muted screen.

“You know, I really could’ve used a friend like you back then,” Riccardo finally says softly, and this time Alessio hears no deceit in his voice, only genuine gratitude, “maybe then I wouldn’t have been such a mess.”

“Your fault for being born ten years too early,” Alessio jokes airily. It is mostly to hide how flustered he is.

_If only I were ten years older…_

Had he been there for Riccardo back then – a time before Cristina – could there have been a chance? Or would he have become another one of those meaningless one-night stands Riccardo regrets to this day?

Giaccherini scores for Italy. Once they are done celebrating, neither of them makes any attempt to return to their original topic.

**serenity** [ _noun, uncountable_ ]:

a feeling of being calm or peaceful; the absence of mental stress or anxiety

New season. New coach. New tactics. New pre-season tour in the U.S.

New teammates who, for some unfathomable reason, have taken over Alessio and Gigio’s hotel room, forcing Alessio to seek sanctuary in their captain’s private chambers. They call it ‘team bonding’; what Alessio hears is ‘pain in the ass’ – but while he does complain, _loudly_ , he has also never been one to refuse an excuse to spend time with Riccardo when it is so freely offered to him.

“You could always just kick them out, you know,” Riccardo suggests with a grin even as he scoots over on his king-size bed to allow Alessio to throw himself on the other side of the mattress. “It’s _your_ room. You’re the one with the key.”

“But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to intrude your privacy, _your highness_.”

Riccardo makes a disgruntled face at the title. Alessio finds it hilarious that while Riccardo has grudgingly come to accept that all his teammates will refer to him as _capitano_ , he still cringes at any other nickname referring to his status, no matter how vague – for Alessio, it’s all the more reason to use them, to get a rise out of the captain.

“And they’ve got Gigio on their side, so it’s not like I stand any chance of kicking them out. Have you seen that boy’s puppy eyes? I swear he’s worse than Carlotta!”

Riccardo rolls his eyes, mouthing a voiceless ‘boy’, his pointed look reminding Alessio that from Riccardo’s viewpoint, Alessio is not that much older than their teenage goalkeeper.

Alessio balances himself on his elbows and cranes his neck to peer around the room. Honestly, he would much rather just sink into the fluffy pillows and sleep there until the morning, only a breath away from Riccardo. But he doesn’t trust himself, especially not when he is asleep – Bertolacci once told him he talks in his sleep, and he is keeping too many secrets from Riccardo to risk blabbing them while unconscious. So, room gazing it is.

Riccardo’s room is bigger than his, even though he isn’t sharing with anyone. Captain’s privileges, sure, but it really doesn’t make any sense. Who needs this much space for just one person? “Nice place. I think I need to overthrow you as captain if this is where it gets me.”

“Uh-huh,” Riccardo mumbles absentmindedly. His face is half-pressed against the pillow, eyes drooping, and Alessio doubts he even heard the comment.

“Oi, are you falling asleep on me?” Alessio raises his voice, just a little bit. It shouldn’t be enough to startle anyone, but Riccardo flinches at the sound anyways, blinking owlishly like he really had been about to fall asleep. “After I went through the trouble of visiting your sorry ass. You wound me, captain.”

Riccardo rolls to his side and offers him a sheepish smile, one arm wrapping around his pillow to prop his head up, so he is properly facing Alessio. “You do realize it’s almost morning in Italy? How are you _not_ tired?” He yawns for a good measure. Alessio cannot tell if he is faking it. “Just, give me a break, okay? I've barely slept over last week – cranky baby, you know the drill. I think she might be teething, though Cristina says it’s too early for that.”

“And here I thought you’d join my excitement over being in the States.” Alessio grumbles with a mock pout, before he too settles down on the bed, cheek pressed against the soft pillow. “You’re no fun, _captain_.” There is a hint of a whine in the last word. Alessio silently cherishes the look of exasperation crossing over Riccardo’s face.

“Sorry, I’ll be sure to show you my undying enthusiasm tomorrow. _After_ a good night’s sleep.” Riccardo has no place to duck when Alessio swings an extra pillow at his face. “Hey! I thought you said you came here to escape those shenanigans?”

“Maybe they’re more fun when it’s with you, old man.”

Riccardo throws the pillow back at Alessio, missing the mark by a wide margin, and grumbles something about “kids these days.” They end up tossing the pillow back and forth a few times, until both of them are giggling breathlessly, in the uncontrollable way only jet lag can induce.

Finally, the pillow lands between them and stays put, obstructing Alessio’s view of Riccardo’s face. It is probably for the best, all things considered – neither of them is going to stop laughing if they keep looking at each other, after all. Not to mention Alessio has caught himself staring at his captain for a good dozen times since they landed in the States, which does not bode well for his efforts to get over his crush.

“I missed you this summer,” Alessio whispers and pulls the pillow toward himself, hugging it against his chest. He immediately realizes it is the jet lag talking, making him admit things he would normally keep to himself. But the words are out, and Riccardo is still smiling at him.

Riccardo only rolls his eyes without saying a word. It is on the gentle side of teasing, the kind that only makes the knot inside Alessio’s chest tighten, leaving him breathless.

There is a saying about distance making the heart grow fonder, isn’t there?

Alessio had hoped that not seeing Riccardo during the summer break would make it easier to come back and start over as just friends, but obviously that plan has backfired spectacularly.

As soon as the break had started, their daily meetings on the training grounds had been replaced by semi-daily phone calls, with random voice messages and routine spams of dog and baby photos in between. In the privacy of their own homes, they had ended up talking about things they would never bring up when someone might overhear. As a result, Alessio feels like he knows Riccardo better than ever – and the more he knows, the deeper his feelings run.

Riccardo’s eyes have fluttered shut again and his deepening breaths tell Alessio he really has fallen asleep this time. Maybe he wasn’t exaggerating about the baby keeping him up.

A curl of dark hair has fallen from behind Riccardo’s ear and over his right eye. Alessio resists the urge to push it back, aware he is threading on very thin ice. If he gives in to the desire to touch now, he will do it again, and again, and again, until he ends up crossing the line.

If he were a responsible adult, he would leave Riccardo to his beauty sleep, go back to his own room, and kick the remaining intruders out so he and Gigio could also get some sleep.

Alessio doesn’t feel like a responsible adult at all as he lies there watching his sleeping captain, his heartbeat echoing in his ears and breath stuck in his throat.

So, instead of doing the sensible thing, Alessio shifts closer, mesmerized by the soft curve of Riccardo’s lips and the way his eyelashes flutter against his light skin. Riccardo is _beautiful_ – absolutely, breathtakingly, and every other word Alessio can come up with – and not for the first time Alessio wonders how it took him so long to recognize his own feelings.

“If only I’d met you sooner,” he mouths the words to no one’s ears. It is a silly wish, because he knows Riccardo has been together with Cristina longer than Alessio has been interested in dating in general, but when he looks at his captain’s peaceful sleeping face— maybe he can allow himself to be a bit silly, just for the moment.

Riccardo shifts in his sleep when Alessio reaches out and pulls the blanket up to his shoulders. For a second, the world stops around them as Riccardo leans into the touch and lets out a content sigh, the skin of his neck warm under Alessio's fingers.

“Sweet dreams, captain,” Alessio whispers as he finally drags himself up from the bed. Riccardo immediately rolls over to Alessio’s vacated side, like searching for the lost warmth, but then he settles down with a soft snore.

Alessio turns off the lights on his way out, stealing one more glance before he leaves the room, Riccardo’s relaxed form illuminated in the light leaking through the open door.

Once in the empty corridor, he leans back against the wall and closes his eyes, willing his heartbeat to calm down. His fingertips are still tingling where he touched Riccardo’s skin.

**displacement** [ _noun, uncountable_ ]:

(psychiatry) the redirection of an emotion or impulse from its original object (such as an idea or person) to another

It was not how Alessio’s national team debut was supposed to go.

He had been so excited when both he and Riccardo got the call-up; not to mention when both of them were named into the starting line-up against Spain. He had been living the dream: the national team had always been the ultimate goal for him, a big prize somewhere in the future, first so far away Alessio could barely see it, then getting closer, step by step, until he suddenly realized he was in the middle of it.

And to experience it all with a person so important to him…

Riccardo had smiled at him when they got the news – the kind of smile that makes Alessio’s knees go weak and breath catch – and told him he deserved it.

He had told Alessio that for him – happy as he was to be called up again – the best part was that he would be there to see Alessio’s debut.

Then everything had gone to shit, no more than 30 minutes into the game. Seeing Riccardo being carted off on a stretcher and not being able to follow had been among the most painful things Alessio has ever experienced. He had wanted to cry and shout and break something, all at the same time, but with the scoop-hungry Italian press right there, he had been unable to do even that.

Alessio never takes fouls on himself personally, but at that moment, he had wanted to _kill_ Ramos for hurting his captain.

That miserable Thursday night in Turin will stay with Alessio for a long time, and for all the wrong reasons.

The scene replays itself in his mind as he walks past Riccardo’s car on the driveway. He has never been to Riccardo’s house before, but it is either that or waiting until the captain shows up back in Milanello.

Cristina opens the door, and if she is surprised to find Alessio at their doorstep, she does well to hide it.

“He’s in the living room,” she tells Alessio as she lets him inside, “see if you can get through to him. God knows I’ve tried.”

Riccardo is sitting back on the couch, legs propped up on the cushions and his daughter snoozing in his arms, tiny head rested on his shoulder, his t-shirt sleeve already wet with drool.

“Looks like a nap time, huh?” Cristina comments in a gentle whisper and takes the baby from her husband, careful not to wake her up. She does let out a half-conscious gurgle despite her mother’s best effort, but quickly settles in her embrace. “We’ll be upstairs if you need me, okay?”

The smile Riccardo offers her does not reach his eyes, but she makes no comment on it, only exchanges a worried look with Alessio as she passes him in the doorway, leaving him alone with Riccardo. Alessio doesn’t know Cristina well – until now, he has made a conscious effort not to get too close to Riccardo’s family, afraid his jealousy might take a turn to the worse – but right then, he feels like they can almost read each other’s minds.

A silence stretches between them, Riccardo avoiding eye contact and Alessio suddenly unsure what he came here to say. It has been mere days since they last saw each other, but so much has happened since then – last time Alessio saw Riccardo, he was being carried off the pitch.

“You didn’t have to come.” Riccardo’s words are so quiet Alessio might have missed them had his attention been on anything else but his friend.

Alessio knows there is no reason to blame himself for not coming earlier: he had travelled to Macedonia with the national team right after the match against Spain, and Riccardo would have never forgiven him if he had skipped the trip for his sake. So why does it feel like he has betrayed Riccardo by not being there?

“You were ignoring my calls. What else was I supposed to do?”

Another silence is all he gets for a response.

Alessio fidgets in place, not used to feeling this anxious around Riccardo, not in a long time anyways; probably not since _the talk,_ right after Mariam was born, that had really sealed their friendship. Somehow the air around Riccardo feels— different? Colder? More closed off? It is like there's something unpleasant bubbling right below the surface, something Alessio knows is there but cannot quite comprehend.

“I heard you won yesterday,” Riccardo is the one to break the silence, suddenly smiling, eyes rising to meet Alessio’s, “I missed the match because of my operation, but I’m sure you were brilliant.”

Where there is usually a soft flutter inside Alessio’s chest whenever Riccardo smiles at him, now there is only cold unease. Riccardo’s eyes are still not smiling.

“It was okay, I guess.” Honestly, Alessio can barely recall what happened during the match, since his mind had been elsewhere the entire time. He will be surprised if Ventura calls him up during the next international break.

Riccardo raises his eyebrows at the non-answer, and before Alessio can stop him, he carefully moves his legs off the couch and sits up straight. “Sit down, just looking at you makes my knee hurt.”

 _And looking at you gives me the jitters_ , Alessio almost says, but holds his tongue. Instead, he walks over and takes a seat in the farthest corner of the couch, his back straight and hands gripping his thighs nervously.

What exactly are you supposed to say in a situation like this? No reassurances come to mind, and Alessio’s brain helpfully provides him with another flashback of Riccardo going down. Five to six months out of action, at least, and it is not even Riccardo’s first time with a serious injury. Alessio has been lucky enough to stay relatively injury-free so far in his career, so he cannot relate.

“I’m sorry I ruined your debut match.”

Why is _Riccardo_ apologizing? It makes no sense, and makes Alessio feel like even more of a shithead for not knowing what to say.

“It wasn’t your fault.” It sounds empty even to Alessio’s own ears; too little, too late. It is not what he came here to say.

“Oh, I know.” Riccardo chuckles humourlessly, his defeated tone utterly unfamiliar to Alessio who only remembers Riccardo ever being the calm, confident one. “It’s all everyone’s been telling me since the match. It’s all everyone told me after I broke my leg, too. But who else am I supposed to blame? It’s not like Ramos _meant_ to put me in the hospital.”

 _He’s still much more to blame than you are_ , Alessio doesn’t say. It’s not that he _wants_ to blame Ramos. Rationally thinking, he knows it was an accident; he knows that on an off day, he could have been the one to take that challenge. But being rational is hard when on the other end of the scale is Riccardo’s wellbeing.

He glances at Riccardo from the corner of his eye. Riccardo is not looking at him, and his fists are clenched in his lap, knuckles white with tension. He looks like he’s in pain, but Alessio cannot tell if it’s the physical pain or the mental one that’s worse.

“I’m sorry this happened to you.” It feels silly to say it out loud, but maybe that is exactly why he needs to say it. “I’d gladly change places with you if I could. I hate seeing you in pain.” There, that’s what he came to say. The weight on his chest doesn’t ease, but he never expected it to.

“Don’t say that,” Riccardo snaps, and the anger flashing in his eyes when he turns to face Alessio is the first genuine emotion Alessio has seen from him since he came here. “Never, _ever_ say anything like that to me again, Alessio. It’s not your burden to bear; it’s mine. And I’d never wish it on anyone else – least of all you.”

And finally, there is the familiar flutter of butterflies in his belly, from the merest reminder that Riccardo does care. Alessio never even realized he was missing the sensation before it comes rushing back, filling his senses.

“Well, _you_ don’t deserve it either,” Alessio counters needlessly. Riccardo must know it without saying. He _must_. “You work so hard for us – for the team, and for me – and sometimes it feels like you never stop to worry about yourself. You know you’re allowed to be pissed off, right? You’re allowed to be disappointed, or sad, or angry, or whatever it is that you’re feeling.” He is speaking quickly, afraid he might lose his nerve if he stops long enough to breathe. “Just, don’t push away the people who care about you, okay? Let us be there for you, just this once. We owe it to you – and you owe it to yourself.”

Riccardo’s lips are parted for an argument that doesn’t come out. He looks lost, even scared, and much younger than his actual age.

“Now, you wanna tell me why you didn’t return my calls?” Alessio asks softly, although he is not sure he wants to hear the answer.

Riccardo shakes his head slowly. Alessio isn’t quite sure if it’s a refusal or just general confusion, so he waits.

“I— I didn’t want to bother you, with the Macedonia game coming up and all.” Riccardo sucks in a breath, and he searches Alessio’s eyes for a way out. He seems to find none, because he continues, “But, I guess I was also jealous. That I couldn’t be there. With you. I was really looking forward to it.”

Alessio reaches out and presses his hand gingerly over Riccardo’s wrist. Usually he wouldn’t dare, the gesture too close to hand-holding – friends don’t do stuff like that – but Riccardo looks like he could use the comfort, and Alessio certainly needs it.

Riccardo looks down at Alessio’s hand, wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, and then meets Alessio’s eyes again. He looks like he is about to cry. “I think— I think I might’ve also been angry at you, you know, for leaving without seeing me. I know it wasn’t your fault – it’s not like you could just up and leave the national team without raising any questions – but deep down, I was still kind of hoping you would. I could’ve used the moral support.”

Alessio can only imagine how much it pains Riccardo to admit something like that. He recognizes it as one of those irrational thoughts one usually dismisses as soon as they emerge, fully aware it is not something they should even consider – it’s like if Alessio came out and admitted feeling jealous every time Riccardo talks about his family.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there,” Alessio simply says, instead of voicing any of his thoughts.

“It’s okay, I know you wanted to. I’m the one being unreasonable here,” Riccardo replies. He uses his free hand to wipe his eyes before any of the unseen tears have a chance to fall. Alessio almost wishes he didn’t do it, but he also understands how hard it must be for Riccardo to show so much of himself at once.

Riccardo lets out a choked laugh, and this time Alessio can hear the feeling behind it. “Can we change the subject now? I’d rather not start crying on you.”

 _I wouldn’t mind_ , Alessio keeps the words to himself, allowing Riccardo the space he needs to collect himself.

Instead, he shrugs and offers a simple, “Okay.” His hand stays on Riccardo’s wrist, and Riccardo makes no attempt to shake it off.

**detachment** [ _noun, uncountable_ ]:

the act of releasing from an attachment or connection; avoiding emotional involvement; coming apart

Milanello feels empty when Riccardo is not around.

Alessio had known it would be weird, simply because he has grown so used to Riccardo’s constant presence in his life, but it still takes him by surprise how unnerving it is. This is the first time since Alessio joined Milan that Riccardo is sidelined for such a long time, and he finds himself missing their captain from day one.

During training, Alessio keeps searching for Riccardo’s form ahead of him, until he catches himself doing it and resolutely forces his attention back to the present.

He often looks up in the dressing room, expecting to see Riccardo smiling at him from the locker opposite of his, only to find an empty seat and Abate’s curious eyes two lockers over.

He sometimes finds himself wandering the dormitory corridors until he comes across the locked door to the captain’s quarters. Riccardo would often let him hide there when the shenanigans of their teammates became too rowdy – Alessio could have hidden in his own room just as well, of course, but Riccardo never pointed this out when he appeared at his door.

He already misses Riccardo one week into his absence, but he misses him even more one, two, three months into it. Milanello is not the same without Riccardo in it.

Of course, he does run into Riccardo in the training centre on occasion, since the captain is doing most of his physio and personalized training on the premises. However, most of the time it happens only in passing, and by the time afternoon practice is over and Alessio is free for the night, Riccardo is usually long gone.

Riccardo is sometimes around for the home games at San Siro, but more often than not, he opts to stay at home instead. He claims it is because he wants to spend as much time as he can with Mariam – “She’s only a baby once, I don’t want to miss that,” – but Alessio has seen the wistful looks he aims at the pitch and the frustration that comes off him in waves when he is at the stadium.

Alessio gets it: he is not sure he could handle watching his team struggle and being unable to help either.

In the end, time does what it does best.

As the months roll by, Alessio finds himself growing used to playing without Riccardo ahead of him. He looks up on the pitch and expects to see Kucka, Sosa, or Bertolacci instead of Riccardo. His eyes pass over Riccardo’s closed locker or dorm room doors without another thought. He even stops searching for Riccardo’s face in the San Siro crowd.

And while Alessio still misses Riccardo, in Milanello and in San Siro, he also _doesn’t_ , and it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as he thought it would.

“Nice game. You played well today,” Riccardo comments when Alessio gets home, after Milan beats Palermo, not bothering with greetings. He rarely does, these days, which oddly enough makes coming to Riccardo feel like coming home, regardless of the place or time.

It is a clear, warm day in early April, and Alessio is not surprised in the least to find Riccardo at his place, lounging in his living room like he owns the place.

Riccardo did say he might drop by with Mariam over the weekend, since Cristina is out of town for some modelling gig, and it turns out Mariam absolutely loves Rocco – and vice versa – much to Riccardo’s annoyance. He is yet to admit the bulldog is growing on him as well, although Alessio can tell that’s the case just by looking at them.

Mariam is sleeping in a makeshift cot Riccardo has set up in the other end of Alessio’s couch, while Rocco sits next to her, vigilantly watching over her every move and sound. It tells volumes about how attached his dog is to this new human friend of his when Rocco barely raises his head to greet Alessio as he enters the room.

“It was okay, I guess,” Alessio shrugs as he drops into his favourite armchair, though the wide grin that spreads over his face must give away his faked nonchalance. It _had_ felt good to pull a comfortable win for once, after the stressful season they have had. “More importantly, how are you? Any chance you’ll make it to the bench for the derby?”

“I hope so, though my doctor tells me not to count on it.” Despite the doubtfulness, Riccardo’s expression is brighter than Alessio has seen in months. Riccardo’s knee is fine, and he is already doing partial training sessions with the rest of the squad, combined with his personalized training regime. It is only a matter of time before he will be back in full.

“I hope so, too,” Alessio agrees – needlessly – his grin softening into a gentle smile, “we all miss you, captain.” _I miss you, Riccardo_.

Riccardo doesn’t respond immediately, busying himself with fixing Mariam’s blanket. Alessio cannot see his face like this, but there is a tension in his shoulders that Alessio knows all too well. He can tell Riccardo cannot be thinking anything positive even before he opens his mouth.

“I don’t feel much like the captain anymore, though. It’s not like you really need me out there.”

A spike of guilt, because Alessio knows what Riccardo is talking about. They have all grown used to Riccardo not being there, and they have all learned to cope with it. He has also heard the comments about Riccardo being past his prime, has read all those nasty tweets hoping Riccardo never comes back…

But it’s not like that! Not for the team, and definitely not for Alessio.

“Shut up, you’re our captain and we _do_ need you — who else if not you?” It really is as simple as that. When Alessio looks at Riccardo, he still sees _his_ _captain_ , and that is all that matters, in the end.

Riccardo hums noncommittally, petting Rocco’s head now that he is done with the blanket. The dog licks his palm and Riccardo makes no move to pull away. Alessio might feel triumphant if not for Riccardo’s defeated tone as he concedes, “We’ll have to wait and see, I guess.”

“You’re being an idiot,” Alessio huffs. He doesn’t push the subject, even though what he really wants to do is shake Riccardo and tell him to snap out of it. Having been out for so long, it's no surprise Riccardo is losing confidence, but that doesn’t mean Alessio is going to give up on him.

Riccardo is still not looking at him, which leaves Alessio free to study his form. Aside from the lingering tensions, he appears well enough, all things considered. Alessio is relieved to notice the anger and frustration he remembers from the first few months of Riccardo’s recovery have dissipated. He must be eating better, too, now that he is training regularly – there had been a period during those early stages when Riccardo had looked like death warmed over, pale and skinny, with dark circles around his eyes and cheeks hollowed.

Being back in full training will do Riccardo a world of good, Alessio is sure of it. But more than that, it will be great for Alessio’s own peace of mind: once Riccardo comes back to training, maybe Alessio can finally stop worrying about his wellbeing during the precious little time they have together outside of Milanello.

“It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” Alessio finally says, his tone not leaving any room for arguments, before he pulls out his phone. “Have you eaten yet? I kinda feel like sushi.”

**fragile** [ _adjective_ ]:

susceptible to physical or emotional injury; a situation, agreement, or relationship that can easily be damaged or destroyed

Alessio hears the news on the radio on his way to Milanello.

There is a moment of exhilaration at the thought that he will be able to play alongside a national team starter, but then the rest of the announcement catches up with him.

He has half a mind to be pissed off at Riccardo for not telling him about the captain thing – ideally, a change in captaincy should be something discussed within the changing room before it’s made official – but a bigger part of him is just plain _worried_.

Despite being back with the squad since late spring, Riccardo is yet to shake off the weird headspace he had found himself in during his recovery, and Alessio missing the start of pre-season because of an injury of his own has not made the situation any easier.

_“I don’t feel much like the captain anymore.”_

This turn of events is exactly the opposite of what Riccardo needs to regain his missing confidence.

_“It’s not like you really need me out there.”_

Suddenly, Alessio is tempted to hit the throttle to shave off as many minutes of the drive as possible. The rest of the squad should be about finished with the afternoon training, so if he is in luck, Alessio might catch Riccardo in the dorms before his own physio session.

In the end, he sticks to the speed limits, remembering old scoops of his teammates getting pulled over for testing the limits of their sponsored vehicles. His mom would kill him if she ever caught a whiff of him doing anything similar.

Milanello is lively as ever, the first team crowding the common area as Alessio arrives.

“You hear about Bonucci? Crazy, huh?” Niang grins, offering a high five as Alessio passes him.

“Sure is.” Alessio clasps his hand and returns the smile the best he can, although there is no chance it comes out as genuine. “Know where Monto is? Didn’t see him when I came in.”

“ _Capi_? I think he’s in Montella’s office, they had something to talk about.”

'Something'? Understatement of the year. Alessio has no doubts that every single player in the squad knows what the meeting is about, but he holds his tongue.

He heads for the dorms, fully prepared to wait at Riccardo’s door until his meeting with the coach is over – he is already late for his physio, but all things considered, the mental health of their captain ( _not captain anymore_ , a mean voice in his head reminds him) is more important than his punctuality.

He doesn’t have to wait long: as he enters the corridor, he just catches Riccardo storming into his room and slamming the door after him. There is a crashing sound that can only mean Riccardo is throwing his stuff into a wall – Alessio can only hope it’s nothing fragile or valuable.

He dares to knock on the door only when silence falls inside. There is no immediate answer, and Alessio finds the door locked when he tries the handle.

He knocks again. He hears a sound of shuffling feet moving around the room, suggesting Riccardo must be picking up whatever he tried to break not too long ago. Then the door finally opens.

There is not a hair out of place on Riccardo’s head – in fact, he looks alarmingly put together for someone Alessio knows must be seething on the inside – and while the room is messier than usual, it doesn’t look like one where the owner was trying to destroy most of his belongings just moments ago.

“Oh, it’s you.” Riccardo visibly relaxes at the sight of Alessio, and that alone gives Alessio the familiar jolt of pleasure he has learned to associate with his moments alone with Riccardo.

“Can I come in?” he asks softly, careful not to push, trying to give Riccardo the space he must be craving while still offering— what, support? Friendship? Shoulder to cry on?

Riccardo shrugs without a word, but steps aside to let Alessio in.

“You’ve heard,” Riccardo comments blandly when the door is safely closed behind Alessio. The air is heavy with apprehension, both of them aware there is too much that needs to be said, but neither of them brave enough to say it.

“Yeah, I did,” Alessio answers simply. Riccardo’s phone is sitting on the desk, the screen shattered. Riccardo is always so careful with the thing, Alessio cannot remember ever seeing a single crack on it. “How are you feeling?” He doesn’t ask ‘are you okay?’ because the answer is obvious, and Riccardo would probably lie.

Riccardo shrugs again, only one of his shoulders rising enough to make the gesture visible.

Alessio raises his eyebrows, inquiring, almost challenging. They have been down this road before, back when Riccardo got injured. Riccardo should know better than to bottle it up.

“It’s just so frustrating, okay?” Riccardo finally grits out, shaking his head in what Alessio assumes is an attempt to avoid eye contact. “They didn’t even let me know beforehand – is that too much to ask for? To be kept in the loop instead of just being tossed aside after four years as the captain? To tell me I’m being replaced before I read it from the fucking _Twitter_?”

Alessio knows things have been turbulent around the new ownership and management, but this bit does take him by surprise. He had been certain that Riccardo knew – that the management would have at least asked him before handing the armband to someone else.

“How can they just _give it_ to him?” The previous anger is obviously coming back to Riccardo: he is pacing the room, hands squeezed into fists, looking at anything but Alessio. “We don’t even know if he’ll fit in – he’s a _juventino_ , for fuck’s sake! How can _he_ be the captain when he doesn’t even know the team? There’s a hierarchy for a reason. They could’ve chosen Jack, or even you, and I would’ve accepted that, but—”

Riccardo’s voice breaks, and Alessio realizes with a start he is close to tears. He doesn’t even have time to marvel at the fact that Riccardo thinks _he_ could have made a good captain. He steps right into Riccardo’s path, forcing him to stop his pacing, and grasps a hold of his wrists, hoping the physical contact will be enough to get through to him.

“You’re right to be upset.” God, it’s so hard to keep his own voice from trembling. “I know you don’t want to show them how much they hurt you. But they’re not here. It’s only me.” A soft murmur, gently urging Riccardo to calm his breathing and relax his balled fists. “You know you can show it to me. I won’t use it against you.”

Riccardo shakes his head, refusing to meet Alessio’s gaze. But the anger is bleeding out of him, replaced by the sadness he has been trying to hide from the start. “What’s the point? I might as well walk out now, it’s not like they want me here anymore.”

“ _I_ want you here.” The truest words Alessio has ever spoken. He could say the team still wants Riccardo and it wouldn’t be a lie, but Alessio is well past worrying about appearances. “Don’t you dare leave me here alone. _I need you_ , Riccardo.”

 _I love you_ , he doesn’t say, but from the way Riccardo is looking at him, he might as well have.

Alessio realizes only now how close their faces are. He can feel Riccardo’s breath on his throat, and Riccardo must crane his neck to look him in the eye. Suddenly Alessio wishes Riccardo would just keep avoiding eye contact instead of _this_. He feels so vulnerable, like Riccardo can read his feelings right off his face.

A tear rolls down Riccardo’s cheek, his wet eyes finally leaking over. It makes him blink involuntarily, causing more tears to fall, but he keeps searching Alessio’s eyes – looking for what, Alessio has no idea.

Alessio wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, instinctively; the urge to kiss Riccardo that he has learned to keep at bay so well is back with vengeance – in fact, he cannot remember ever wanting to kiss his captain more, to hell with consequences. Riccardo is right here, broken, crying, talking about _leaving_ , and all Alessio can think about is how easy it would be to lean down and find out what his lips feel like.

Alessio has no idea how long it lasts – it feels like an eternity, exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, but it’s probably more like ten, twenty seconds tops – but finally Riccardo lets out a shuddering breath and ducks his head down, pressing his forehead against Alessio’s shoulder. He makes no sound, but Alessio can feel his shoulders shaking with silent sobs as he lifts his arms to pull him into a proper hug.

They stand there, in the middle of Riccardo’s messy room, Alessio rocking him gently in his arms because he has no idea what else he is supposed to do, while Riccardo cries silently on his shoulder, the fabric of his t-shirt soaked through.

It is not something they will bring up again, Alessio knows without saying, but it is something they both probably needed. An outlet for their suppressed emotions – as different as they may be – a moment of complete honesty, void of pretences or overthinking.

“You know,” Riccardo finally says, long after his sobs have subsided, still cocooned safely inside Alessio’s embrace, “Bonucci’s going to need the room when he joins.” Alessio hadn’t even thought of that, but he knows what Riccardo is getting at before the next words are out. Bertolacci is supposedly going out on a loan, too. “Do you mind if I move in?”

Alessio wants to laugh, because Riccardo should know by now that there is only one answer he can give.

“Do you need help carrying your stuff?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone, and especially Kellin who's always there to help me make sense of the mess that is my head -- or my writing, in this case❤️
> 
> _31/7/2020 UPDATE: Minor edits in wording and grammar._


	3. beginning of the end

**grace** [ _noun, uncountable_ ]:

elegance and beauty of movement or expression; a polite and thoughtful way of behaving, even when upset or unfairly treated

“I know not everyone here agrees with me being the captain,” Bonucci is twisting his hands nervously, eyes not quite meeting his new teammates’, and a self-conscious chuckle escapes his lips before he continues, “and you have every right to do so. I probably wouldn’t agree with it either if I were in your shoes.”

_Lies. If you didn’t agree, you wouldn’t have asked for it._

Alessio bites his lips together and stares resolutely past his new captain’s shoulder. He meets the eyes of his former captain, who is standing on the other side of the half-circle gathered to welcome their newest teammate. Riccardo holds his gaze for a fraction of a second, but then his focus is back on Bonucci, taking in every word that Alessio is ignoring.

Alessio has a vague feeling that he is not the only one looking at Riccardo instead of the man of the day.

Riccardo appears calm, almost eerily so. The corners of his mouth are upturned just enough to create an impression of a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his gaze is clear and back straight. Nothing in his posture reveals that mere weeks earlier he had to replace his phone after throwing it against a wall when he heard the news of this very man joining the team.

Riccardo never complained after that day, not even when it was just the two of them. There is a part of Alessio that wishes he would, because if Riccardo were to openly show his disappointment, then maybe Alessio wouldn’t feel so obligated to stay angry _for_ him.

It’s hard not to be angry when he still remembers what it felt like to have Riccardo’s tears seep through his shirt, making the fabric stick to his skin, even as he tried his best to do something, _anything_ , to make his friend feel better.

Alessio realizes Bonucci has stopped talking only when excited chatter fills the training ground and players move to greet their new captain. Alessio can tell it’s mostly players who joined during the summer, while the few players left from the old guard hang back – from the corner of his eye, he sees Jack and Ignazio observing Riccardo, ready to follow his lead, just like Alessio does.

The irony of Alessio being part of _‘old’_ anything is not lost on him. Riccardo would laugh himself silly if Alessio dared to say such a thing out loud.

“Leo,” Riccardo calls over the crowd, and the squad immediately falls silent. Alessio must suppress a smile, because obviously Riccardo’s still got it – you can strip a guy of the armband, but not the authority.

Bonucci turns to face Riccardo as their teammates shuffle to clear the way for the ex-captain to walk through. He offers a sheepish smile and pushes out a hand – Alessio quells a sudden urge to push himself between the two, because _how dare he_ even look at Riccardo – but Riccardo bypasses the handshake and pulls him into a friendly hug instead.

“Welcome to the family,” Riccardo says, loud enough for the whole squad to hear. The air around the pitch shifts with that, apprehension turning into relief as Ignazio joins his two Azzurri teammates, patting Bonucci’s shoulder amicably.

Bonucci is saying something to Riccardo, so softly Alessio doesn’t catch it, but he guesses it must have been some sort of an apology when Riccardo shakes his head with a half-muffled laugh and replies, “Don’t worry about it. It’s your headache now — no takebacks!”

Riccardo makes it sound like he really does not mind, and judging by how Bonucci’s shoulders slump in relief, at least he has bought it.

Alessio doesn’t buy it for a second, and he says as much once he and Riccardo are walking towards their shared room some twenty minutes later. “You’re letting him off the hook too easily. Could’ve at least made him sweat a bit.”

Riccardo hums noncommittally, hands in pockets and eyes fixed forward. “What’s the point? It’s not his fault the new management sees me expendable.”

“They wouldn’t have given him the armband had he not asked for it,” Alessio snaps back, more aggressive than intended in face of another reminder that Riccardo is still thinking about leaving. “It’s not the Milan way. I can’t believe they’re disrespecting you like this.”

Riccardo laughs, completely humourless. Alessio keeps looking at him, trying to read his unreadable expressions even as his ex-captain refuses to meet his eyes.

“I hate it when you do that, Riccardo,” Alessio grumbles and reaches out to touch Riccardo’s shoulder, wordlessly asking his friend to stop walking. Riccardo does. “It’s just me. You know you don’t need to keep pretending for my sake, right?”

Riccardo’s expression softens as he raises his right hand to cover Alessio’s on his left shoulder. “It’s not that simple. You know it as well as I do.” He glances up at Alessio’s face, the corners of his lips dropping into a barely-there frown – it is not aimed at Alessio, more likely it is there because Riccardo is comfortable enough to drop the act. “Let’s not do this in the corridor. I’m sick of my private conversations leaking into the press.”

Alessio doesn’t ask which conversation Riccardo is referring to – he has long since stopped following rumours, trusting Riccardo will tell him if it’s something that actually matters – only follows him into their dorm room.

Riccardo’s side of the room is untouched, the stuff they carried over still piled on the floor next to the neatly made bed, because Riccardo had departed with the squad for the China tour literal hours after the move. This is the first time Alessio sees him in Milanello since then, and it is only now sinking in that he will be sharing his space with Riccardo from now on.

“ _You_ ,” Riccardo starts as he sits down on Alessio’s bed rather than his own – probably a force of habit, as unused to their new living arrangements as Alessio is –, “need to stop worrying about me and start thinking about your own career.”

Alessio is left speechless. This is the last thing he expected to hear when Riccardo told him to wait until they were behind closed doors.

Riccardo raises an eyebrow at his sceptical look. “Leo is ranked among the best centre backs in the _world_. This is the perfect chance for you to learn from the best.” He holds Alessio’s gaze, challenging him to argue even though they both know Riccardo is right. “So, you need to stop this— this— whatever childish grudge it is you’re holding against Leo and start working towards building a _partnership_ with him.”

“I’m not childish!” Alessio retorts without giving another thought to the fact that arguing the point is only proving Riccardo’s assessment. “I can’t just— just let them walk all over you when I can tell it’s hurting you. Isn’t Milan supposed to be a family? Didn’t you just say that? What family does this to their own?”

“Come here,” Riccardo tells him, head held high, holding Alessio’s gaze until he gives up and slumps on the bed next to him. They stay silent for another minute, long enough for Alessio start feeling bad about his outburst.

“You know all that talk about Milan family is just politics, right?” Riccardo asks, his voice low. “Not to mention it’s part of the Berlusconi era politics – we have no idea how that’s going to change now with the new owners. Well, aside from what we’ve already seen.” Riccardo’s fingers comb through Alessio’s hair before his hand settles at the nape of his neck. The touch sends shivers down Alessio’s spine.

“I had time to think about it on the Asian tour,” Riccardo continues when Alessio offers no protests, “and you know what? It’s obvious my time here is up. I’m the face of the failed Milan – not to mention probably the most hated captain in the club’s history – so pushing me out _makes sense_. The fact that I haven’t been kicked out yet is probably out of courtesy to a former captain.”

Alessio’s nails are digging into his palms painfully, and he forces himself to loosen his fists before he opens his mouth, making a conscious effort to keep his voice steady even as his insides boil with suppressed rage. “Would you please stop talking shit about _my captain_?” He leans back into Riccardo’s hand resting on his neck, reminding himself it is not Riccardo he is angry with. “Nothing about this makes sense, Riccardo. And you convincing yourself otherwise won’t make it so.”

Riccardo has the nerve to laugh at him – it is a real laugh this time, the kind that makes Alessio’s chest swell with its warmth, nothing like the fake ones from before – and he leans in to press his forehead against Alessio’s temple, his breath cool against the flushed cheek. “That obvious, huh?”

Riccardo is _too damn close_ for Alessio to think straight, and he probably knows it, uses it to his advantage. Alessio wishes he had the nerve to call him out on it.

“But I meant what I said,” Riccardo assures him, breath ghosting over Alessio’s face, giving him chills even in the stifling summer heat, “you need to stop worrying about me and start putting yourself first. Unlike me, you’re part of the fresh core they want to build the team around — you can’t let your feelings get in the way of that, not when you’re _so close_.”

Alessio’s breath hitches because it sounds almost like Riccardo is acknowledging Alessio’s feelings for him.

A part of him wants to pull away – to create enough distance for his brain to start functioning again – but another part dreads the idea of ever giving up this new intimacy.

The second part wins and he stays still, sucking in a slow breath through his nose and holding it in anticipation. It is only partly because his body refuses to cooperate.

“Don’t give them the means to hurt you, Alessio,” Riccardo whispers against his skin. “Promise me you’ll be smart about this. Because my career is mine to break, but I can’t have yours on my conscience too.”

“Fine,” Alessio grits out, even though there are so many things wrong with what Riccardo is saying, “I promise I won’t do anything that might risk my career.”

Riccardo lets out a sigh of relief and finally pulls back, allowing Alessio to breathe more easily. “Thank you. That’s all I’m asking.”

“But,” Alessio speaks over him, in a rush as he finally finds his voice, “I won’t let you break yours either.”

Riccardo shakes his head but now he is smiling indulgently. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

Alessio is left with a distinct feeling that his former captain is not taking him seriously, and that is what really strengthens his resolve to hold on to that final promise.

**illusive** [ _adjective_ ]:

based on or having the nature of an illusion

When Alessio agreed to share his room with Riccardo, he hadn’t had time to think about the consequences. It had been a spur-of-the-moment decision, egged on by the Bonucci news, shock of Riccardo’s tears, and Alessio’s own confession.

Even afterwards, when Riccardo was busy travelling Asia with the squad and Alessio underwent physio in Milan, he had been hard pressed to find anything wrong with the decision. Riccardo was arguably his best friend in Milan – the whole city, not just the club – as well as one of the very few people in the club whose presence never felt like an intrusion. With Alessio’s feelings out in the open, there was no risk even in Alessio’s supposed sleep talking. It seemed like a logical solution all around.

That logic is completely lost on Alessio when he finds himself lying awake at 3 a.m. without a wink of sleep for the third night in a row.

He is no stranger to sleepless nights. In fact, over the past two years, even the reason for his occasional insomnia has always been the same. Now that reason is lying in bed right across the room, and Alessio feels silly for not having seen it coming.

The first night it happened, Alessio had actually quite liked it: he had spent hours on end just listening to Riccardo’s steady breathing and thinking how easy it would be to cross the room and pull the blankets higher to cover the bare skin glowing in the moonlight seeping through the blinds.

It had been a relief, to witness with his own eyes that Riccardo was getting enough sleep, because they both know that has not always been the case – still isn’t, more often than not, which makes it even more noteworthy when it happens.

Riccardo is a calm sleeper: he rarely tosses or turns once he falls asleep, his whole body relaxing in a way it never does when he is aware of his surroundings. The contrast is massive, and it is what makes it so easy for Alessio to tell when his former captain is truly asleep instead of just faking.

Other nights, Riccardo doesn’t sleep. This is one of those nights.

There is no tossing and turning on these nights either because Riccardo is too proud to outwardly show he has trouble sleeping. Instead, he lies very still – almost like a doll – muscles tense and breathing shallow; an antithesis of what he looks like when he is actually sleeping.

If Riccardo knows Alessio is watching him, he is yet to comment on it. He probably does know, though, the same way Alessio can tell whenever Riccardo is awake.

Sometimes they stay awake like that until sunrise, neither acknowledging the other, but at the same time intimately aware they are not alone. This night feels like one of those.

Alessio catches himself wondering what would happen if he did cross the room and lay down next to Riccardo. The beds are big enough, so there would be enough room for him to press up against Riccardo’s back and claim that comfort he so craves.

Alessio remembers how Riccardo’s breath feels against his skin. He remembers the feeling of Riccardo’s body pressed against his – hugging him, leaning against him, crying on his shoulder – and he remembers how Riccardo’s hands sometimes linger in his hair, against his neck, at the small of his back…

It is easy to pretend that the rest of the world doesn’t exist when it’s just the two of them, lying awake in the dead of night, listening to each other’s shallow breathing and acting like they don’t realize what it means.

Alessio has long since stopped hoping for the impossible. He has accepted his feelings for what they are – unrequited, silently acknowledged, maybe even appreciated – and made his peace with the fact that there will never be a relationship beyond friendship between them.

But in the dead of night – his eyelids heavy with lack of sleep and the fine line between dream and reality blurring – it is so easy to forget why it has to be like that.

He hears movement from the other side of the room, covers shuffling, and then Riccardo’s bare feet hit the floor. His movements are silent, cautious, as if not to wake Alessio up. Or maybe just not to draw attention to why he is getting up at 3:30 a.m.

Alessio squeezes his eyes shut and waits for Riccardo to leave the room, the brush of his bare feet against the stone floor only audible because there are no other sounds to drown it out. He realizes he is even holding his breath only when Riccardo is out of the room.

He lies still, waiting for Riccardo to come back – the bathroom is just two doors down, and even the drinks automat in the common room is no more than a few minutes away, so there is no reason for him to be gone for more than that.

But the three sleepless nights are finally catching up with him. With Riccardo not there to keep him alert, Alessio’s body immediately feels heavier, his eyelids weighed down, and he can feel himself slipping out of consciousness.

He is roused from his slumber an indeterminate amount of time later by the feeling of someone tucking him in, the heat of his blankets enveloping him. There is a soft thud as something (a bottle of water?) is placed on the floor next to his bed. A hand lingers on his shoulder, fingers absently caressing the bare skin just above his collarbone.

Riccardo must know Alessio is awake, because Alessio is holding his breath again, his body tense as a bowstring, but he makes no move to pull away. Instead, he crouches next to the bed, so close that Alessio can feel his breath dancing on his skin.

In the dead of night, it is so easy to pretend no one hears you.

“I’m so sorry, Alessio.” The whisper feels like a punch to the gut. Riccardo’s hand moves up to stroke his cheek, smoothing over the three-day stubble. “I wish there was something more I could do. You don’t deserve any of this.”

A softest brush of warm lips against his forehead, and then Riccardo is gone.

When Alessio finally dares to open his eyes, Riccardo is back in his own bed with his back turned to Alessio, tense and very much awake. He is pressed against the wall, leaving more than enough room for Alessio to join him, if he were to make that choice.

“That’s not your call to make,” Alessio mumbles to no one in particular. He picks up the water Riccardo left for him and takes a small sip before burying himself deeper into his blankets. The digital clock on Riccardo’s nightstand reads 3:54, and Alessio has no illusions of catching any more sleep before his alarm goes off.

Come morning, Riccardo will smile at him and wish him an airy, “Good morning,” before he heads out for a morning jog, while Alessio is just beginning to collect himself for the day, silently wondering if the night before was nothing more than a very vivid dream.

( _Can’t dream when you’re not sleeping_ , the voice in the back of his mind reminds him, absolutely unnecessarily.)

**aspiration** [ _noun_ ]:

a strong desire for high achievement or an object of such desire

Alessio has trouble pinpointing when exactly he became one of the leaders in the Milan squad.

It has been a gradual shift, from being left alone in the dressing room during his early months – only partly because he preferred to keep his head down – to becoming someone his teammates look up to, expecting him to provide a point of reference.

Riccardo claims it is because Alessio has something that he calls ‘innate charisma’ – a presence that attracts people to him and gives him an air of authority without any conscious effort, making him a natural leader.

“What you have, it’s something I’ve wanted since I first captained Fiorentina,” Riccardo says with a shrug when Alessio tries to argue the point, “it’s easy to see a natural when it’s something I’ve had to work my ass off to get.” Riccardo’s eyes stray to Bonucci, who is sitting a couple seats over, deep in conversation with Ignazio. “I guess I never did, in the end.”

Alessio is about to tell him he is being stupid again, but his retort is interrupted by Gattuso striding in. That’s what they are here for: to fill in the new coach about the sorry state of the squad. The leaders of this current Milan, called together by the coach himself, gathered in the Milanello common area while the rest of the first team have already gone home.

Despite Riccardo’s reassurances, Alessio finds it rather ironic that he is here, considering there is exactly one person in the whole club he is actually close to, and that is the deposed captain sitting next to him. Casual acquaintances aside, Riccardo is without a doubt the only person in the club who _knows_ Alessio.

Then again, you don’t need to know someone to consider them a leader. Hell, Alessio would have followed Riccardo until the end of the world long before they truly got to know each other.

Alessio glances to his right, to _his captain_ (Alessio stubbornly refuses to add ‘former’ in there) whose eyes are glued to Gattuso, drinking in his every word. Riccardo’s hand is resting on the bench between them, so close to Alessio’s that he could hook their pinkies together with the smallest of movements.

Gattuso is talking about winning mentality – _the Milan way_ – or the lack thereof when it comes to the current Milan. He does not sugar-coat or try to make them feel better about themselves, and every harsh word hits right home because the players all know he is right.

They talk so much about bringing back the Milan of old, but what right do they have to say that when they are not even good enough to be in the same room with the old legends?

“But you know what? It doesn’t matter jack shit how good players we have if we don’t know how to play as a team.”

Gattuso catches Alessio’s gaze and holds it, intense and so sure of himself that Alessio cannot even think about looking away. “If you think my generation won the Champions League on individual brilliance alone, you haven’t been paying attention. We won because we knew our own abilities and those of our teammates – we won because we played as a single unit, not a bunch of assholes thrown together for a season.”

Alessio follows Gattuso’s gaze as it trails across the room and lands on Bonucci. His insides twist when he realizes he never gave his new defensive partner a fair chance – even after months of playing together, they still don’t trust each other in a way a winning defence is supposed to.

“But it’s not all your fault. It’s the manager’s job to bring the best out of his squad, and to make them understand what needs to be done. But for me to do that, I need the whole team behind me, unified. Can you help me do that?”

And just like that, the mood of the meeting shifts – Gattuso is not talking about what they have done wrong, he is telling them how he is going to fix it. He is telling them they can win with this squad, as long as they – _the_ _leaders_ – help him gain the players’ trust. They will rebuild this squad of individuals into a well-oiled machine, a unified front with only one goal: to win back the prestige that wearing a Milan jersey once meant.

He is convincing – a strong leader if Alessio has ever seen one – and Alessio _wants_ to believe in him so badly.

He feels Riccardo’s pinkie brushing against the back of his hand. It might be accidental, but the contact doesn’t go away. It is intimate in its casualness – a secret language between just the two of them, Riccardo’s way of saying it is okay for Alessio to feel hopeful.

Alessio inclines his body towards Riccardo, just enough to bump their shoulders together, and they exchange a quick smile. The urge to enclose Riccardo’s hand inside his own is still there – always is – but after this long it is easy enough to resist and replace with something more casual. On a good day, he can almost forget the feelings are still there.

“I’m happy you didn’t leave this summer,” Alessio whispers to Riccardo as Bonucci asks something about the tactical choices for upcoming games. He knows he should pay attention, but he also trusts Riccardo’s multitasking skills enough to know he will get a full recap afterwards if he asks for it. “I’ve got a feeling it’s gonna get better. Don’t you?”

Riccardo hums absentmindedly, in a manner that Alessio knows not to count as an agreement, but it is not an immediate denial either, which is more than he was expecting. It has been a while since Alessio saw Riccardo being optimistic about anything relating to his career.

“We’ll have to wait and see, don’t we?” Riccardo finally concedes with a noncommittal shrug. “I’ve seen too many managers come and go to get my hopes up from the start.”

“Did you say something, Monto?” Gattuso asks, reminiscent of a teacher when the class talks over him, though he does offer Riccardo a fond smile when their eyes meet, reminding Alessio they actually know each other from way back, even played in the World Cup – Riccardo’s first and Gattuso’s last – together.

Riccardo returns the smile innocently and joins the discussion about squad rotation and a possible _ritiro_ to give Gattuso a chance to get to know all his players – or the players a chance to get to know their new coach _and_ each other.

Alessio rolls his eyes and mouths, “teacher’s pet,” to Riccardo who only replies with an eyeroll of his own.

Riccardo stays back with Bonucci and Gattuso when the rest of them are dismissed.

Alessio waves goodbye to his teammates but hangs back near the main entrance. Ignazio shoots him a knowing grin and Jack makes a half-assed joke about co-dependency and goodbye kisses that Alessio forces himself to laugh off — if they only knew...

Sometimes he hates being the butt of these jokes, even though he knows there are other roomies even in the current squad who get the same treatment. Other times he worries, because what if his teammates have noticed something? What if his secret isn’t just his (and Riccardo’s) anymore?

Most days, like today, he shrugs it off with well-practiced ease. _Don’t let them get to you_ , Riccardo told him ages ago, and he is determined to live by that advice.

Bonucci is the next one out, and he passes Alessio with a friendly, “See you tomorrow! It’s gonna be great.”

“Yeah, they won’t know what hit them,” Alessio returns with a grin that feels only half-forced. He must try to make it work, because they are still Milan’s starting centre backs, even if he will never be able to look at Bonucci and think of him as _his_ captain (a Milan captain, yes, but Alessio has only had one captain since he joined the club).

“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Riccardo says as soon as he walks out, but he immediately falls in step with Alessio, a hand landing on his arm and staying there as they head for the parking lot.

“All good in there?” Alessio asks, doing his best to keep his tone casual even though they both know he is dying of curiosity.

“Nothing much, just stuff about my role on the team.” Riccardo is leaving something out, and Alessio is about to pry deeper into it when he changes the subject. “I told Rino he should build the team around you if Leo decides to leave at the end of the season.” Alessio has not heard anything about Bonucci leaving, but he has no reason to doubt Riccardo who has always been better at the club politics.

“You have no right to worry about my future before you stop letting them walk all over yours,” he grumbles and shakes Riccardo’s hand off his arm because it suddenly feels like it’s burning through his sleeve.

Riccardo’s chuckle has no humour in it, and even without a voiced argument Alessio knows he is not going to stop just because Alessio says so. It is painful, being Riccardo’s pet project when he wants to be so much more. (He knows he cannot be. It doesn’t stop him from wanting.)

“Don’t worry, we’re gonna be fine,” Riccardo finally assures him, voice laced with fake cheer.

Riccardo says ‘we’ like it doesn’t include himself – he doesn’t care what happens to him, as long as Alessio and his precious _Milan_ are fine. Hearing it leaves an uncomfortable hollow feeling inside Alessio’s chest, but he has no way of voicing it.

So, instead of pursuing the subject, he nudges Riccardo’s elbow playfully as they reach their cars, parked neatly side by side. “Mind picking me up in the morning? I need to drop my car at the shop to fix those scratches Mirko got last week?”

(He had sworn it was the last time he borrowed his car to his brother. They both know the threat will not last.)

It is by no means an unusual request – they drive to Milanello together at least twice a week as it is, since they live relatively close to each other and work on similar schedules – so it takes Alessio by surprise when Riccardo doesn’t agree immediately. Instead, he meets Alessio’s eyes and holds the gaze, expression unreadable.

Then Alessio realizes his hand has dropped from Riccardo’s elbow to his hand, their fingers loosely entwined – innocent and natural, like holding hands is something they do every day. He jerks his hand back as if burned, face hot and heartbeat thumping in his ears like it hasn’t in months.

The movement is enough to shake Riccardo back to the present, and he switches the blank expression to a smile so quickly Alessio knows it cannot be genuine even if it is damn convincing. “Sure, does 6 a.m. work for you? I was hoping to get some drills in before breakfast.”

Alessio could insist they talk about what just happened. He could complain that no one should be up at 6 in the morning for extra practice when they already have official morning training scheduled. He could also tell Riccardo that pushing himself so hard, he will end up in hospital again.

His fingers are still tingling from where he held Riccardo’s hand.

“Great, I’ll see you then.”

The hollow feeling is still in his chest as he climbs into his car.

**inception** [ _noun_ ]:

an event that is a beginning; a first part or stage of subsequent events

In football, the first push is often all you need to keep riding that high note.

Gattuso took over the first team in late November, they suffered their last loss before Christmas, and came back from holidays a changed team, full of fight and hunger.

They are winning, finally, and the successes feed their confidence, so they _keep winning_.

Even Riccardo is genuinely smiling as he cheers for them from the bench – and then even more come February, when he is playing with them, coming off the bench in some games but also starting others. He doesn’t mind being the back-up, he assures Alessio time and again, as long as he can be of use to the team.

Milan comes first for Riccardo, as always, closely followed by Alessio – the defender can always feel Riccardo’s eyes on him when he is playing, and it is painful and exhilarating at the same time – but Alessio cannot stop himself from wondering whether Riccardo ever takes the time to worry about himself.

“I’m fine, Alessio, stop fretting!” Riccardo laughs when Alessio confronts him about it, and if his hand rests on Alessio’s shoulder for a few seconds longer than either of them is comfortable with— well, it is one of those things neither of them brings up anymore. “I’m still playing, aren’t I? We’re winning and I’m getting the minutes, and I have my family and the team and _you_ —” He cuts himself off and bites his lips together, cheeks colouring in a way that doesn’t make sense to Alessio.

Alessio shakes off the confusion and attacks the argument he knows he should be able to win, “But are you really happy with just _minutes_? You’re our captain, you should—”

“ _Vice_ captain,” Riccardo corrects him, shaking his head. “You really ought to have learned that by now. Not to mention you’ve probably surpassed me in the hierarchy by now, so even ‘vice’ might be pushing it.”

Alessio opens his mouth to argue but Riccardo speaks over him, “And I just played full minutes in Europa League last week, so I wasn’t even expecting to start tonight. Stop wasting your warm-up time on me.”

And that’s how Alessio walks out to face his childhood favourite, Lazio, in the Coppa Italia semi-finals at the Olimpico, without his biggest fan and moral support at his side.

It is a tense game, where both teams know that after the goalless draw in the first round, whoever scores first will have the edge. The pressure is especially on the defence – on Alessio and Bonucci – because they cannot keep relying on Gigio to save their asses. _Fix the defence, and the offence will follow_ , Gattuso had told them during his very first training session.

So they defend, they fight, they work to keep that 0-0. They play full 90 minutes and then some, and Alessio knows if he looks at the bench, Riccardo will be there, always at the edge of his seat, cheering for him and the rest of the squad, _when he should be on the pitch with Alessio_.

Alessio doesn’t look, because he cannot afford the distraction, not when their road to the Coppa final might be blocked by a single mistake.

At the 96th minute, Riccardo is subbed in, and it is like a weight is lifted off Alessio’s shoulders. Riccardo is here, there is no way they can lose now.

(He _knows_ how flawed his logic is, thank you very much. It doesn’t change the fact that while Riccardo is a distraction on the bench, on the pitch his presence makes Alessio simply better.)

They finish the extra time with no goals, 0-0 on aggregate, and that means _penalties_.

Penalties that no one wants to take because there is too much hanging in the balance.

“Monto, you go second, OK?” Gattuso says and it is _bizarre_ – he doesn’t trust Riccardo to play a full match, but he trusts him to take a penalty that might decide their fate? Alessio would trust Riccardo with his life, but even he sees the midfielder is crumbling under the sudden pressure.

Alessio can tell Riccardo is going to miss half a second before he does, because he knows what Riccardo’s successful penalties look like – he has been watching him train after hours, drilling off his frustrations with the bench duty when he thinks no one is around – and this is not it. He is tense, his stance and run all wrong, and as a result the shot is too central, easy pickings for the goalie.

Afterwards, Riccardo avoids eye contact and Alessio wants to go to him, but he can’t because the shootout is still on and he is supposed to stay put until it’s his turn – if his turn even comes, as he is only seventh in the shooting order, with Lazio leading 1-0 after two rounds.

But his turn _does_ come, after his counterpart shoots the ball up into the stands. The Lazio fans are whistling and the goalkeeper tries to psyche him into making a mistake, but Alessio takes one look over his shoulder, catches Riccardo’s gaze and holds it for one, two, three seconds – _watch me, captain, I’m doing this for you_ – and then he takes a short run and wins them the semi-final.

(Looking back, it was hardly his best penalty, but in the spur of the moment he had _known_ it would go in.)

In the aftermath he can feel his teammates jumping on him, hears the cheering and celebrations, but none from the person he wants to be there the most. He is carrying a teammate around while another claps his back and shouts into his ear. Gattuso finally catches him into a near violent embrace, and Alessio knows Riccardo must be somewhere in the crowd surrounding him because he would never walk away from a _Milan_ victory.

They thank the Milan fans who travelled with them to the capital and then Alessio is snatched for a post-match interview – _how does it feel to score the winner in a place like this?_ – so he doesn’t come face to face with Riccardo until they are back in the dressing room.

Once they do, there is no need for words: Riccardo smiles, all teeth and wrinkly eyes, and opens his arms, inviting Alessio to sink into the familiar embrace. Alessio might even lift him in the air, he is not sure. All he knows is that finally he has Riccardo in his arms and Riccardo’s hands are gripping his shoulders, then the back of his neck, sliding up to his short hair, and they are both laughing, relieved and exhilarated and free in a way they can rarely afford to be.

“Get a fucking room, you two!” Borini yells at them with a barking laugh, but he is too busy being rowdy with the rest of the team to pay them much mind – Alessio wouldn’t even have been able to tell the jibe was aimed at them was it not for a towel that lands over their heads.

Alessio reluctantly unwraps one of his arms from Riccardo’s waist to pull the wet and undoubtedly dirty towel off them. However, before he can finish the task, Riccardo’s palms cup his cheeks, and he tilts his head just enough to press his lips against the corner of Alessio’s mouth, and— _wow_. That was not what he expected. At all.

Technically, it is not Alessio’s first kiss – he did have a girlfriend back in the day, after all – but it might as well have been if his reaction (or lack thereof) is anything to go by.

A part of him notes Riccardo’s lips are far too soft for a guy, while another wonders if his stubble is scratching Riccardo’s clean-shaven skin. Those are probably not the things he should be worrying about when his friend, his captain, his crush, ( _the love of his life_ ), is kissing him in a dressing room full of teammates, only hidden by the _nasty_ towel Borini probably used to wipe his balls.

He doesn’t have time to think about returning the kiss or pulling away before Riccardo makes the decision for him, the towel falling off their heads as the older man steps back and looks pointedly down at their shoes. (Actually, it’s just Alessio’s shoes, as Riccardo has taken off his.)

Alessio’s mind is blank. All he can do is stare at Riccardo, as his heartbeat pounds in his ears and blood rushes to his face, _because_. Yeah. No one ever taught him how he is supposed to act in these situations. Even if they did, he probably would not remember because _how do you do thoughts, anyways_?

Riccardo uses both hands to push his own hair behind his ears as he looks up at Alessio again.

“Say something?” Alessio whispers, and as far as he is concerned, their teammates do not exist anymore. It is just him and Riccardo. That is his whole world, right here, and he needs Riccardo to _say something_ before the silence kills him.

Riccardo looks lost – he has no right to look like that, not after _kissing_ Alessio and forcing their world off its axis – and he shakes his head, not a word coming out.

Alessio’s little private world comes tumbling down when someone leaps on his back, full weight – it is Calabria, he recognizes from the voice – knocking him off balance. Riccardo’s hands return to his shoulders just in time to stop all three of them from toppling over.

“Oi, Davide, respect your elders!” Alessio snaps at the full-back who only giggles and clings to his back even tighter. Alessio is fairly sure he cannot be drunk yet.

“I’ll leave you kids to it then,” Riccardo says after he makes sure Alessio is not about to fall anymore. He grabs a clean towel from his bag and heads for the showers without a sideways glance to Alessio, who is now struggling with three player-shaped octopi crowding him – where Calabria goes, Locatelli and Cutrone are always quick to follow.

“Monto you traitor!” Alessio wheezes out and Riccardo’s exaggerated bark of laughter is the only proof his message is heard as the man makes his escape.

**tipping point** [ _noun_ ]:

the point at which a series of small changes or incidents becomes significant enough to cause a larger, more important change; the crisis stage in a process, when a significant change takes place

Riccardo is nowhere to be found after the Atalanta game.

Alessio had known about his plans to drive to Caravaggio to visit his parents after the match, but he had expected Riccardo to at least wait until the end despite his red card. He cannot even remember the last time Riccardo skipped the end of a Milan match – he always watches, obsessively, even when he is injured or on the bench.

Alessio is not only worried because Riccardo is gone, though. Slipping out of the stadium while the match is still on is always the easier option if you want to avoid the press, and Riccardo would most certainly want to do that, what with all the rumours surrounding his future with the club.

No, the reason Alessio worries is because he had seen Riccardo’s face when he walked off the pitch. He had _laughed –_ another thing amateur pundits will probably use to rip him apart in the aftermath – but to Alessio it had been the closest to a breaking point he had seen Riccardo come to since his meltdown following Bonucci’s signing.

He had hoped to catch Riccardo after the match, to make sure he was coping – and to offer a shoulder to cry on in case he wasn’t – because that’s what friends do, even if said friends are stuck in a borderline unhealthy game of push and pull, where neither of them quite knows where they stand anymore.

It has been months since the Coppa Italia semi-final (Alessio makes a conscious effort to remember the night in terms of what happened during the game and not _after_ ), and they have since been kicked out of Europa League and lost the Coppa final. All good things must come to an end, no matter how hard you cling to them.

(Alessio is thinking about the unbeaten streak. Nothing else. Never.)

He drives back to Milan with Borini. It is a silent ride, both deep in thought. Borini is probably running through repeats of the match they should have won – they were winning until the last five minutes, after all – and Alessio knows it’s what he should be thinking about too, instead of the constant thoughts of Riccardo plaguing his mind.

Riccardo has been talking about leaving Milan. _I don’t want to be a burden,_ he said one night, when Alessio was the only one hearing it. _It’s been my club for so long, and I wanted to end my career here, but not like this. I don’t want the last memory to be a nasty one._

Alessio gets it, he really does. He has seen Riccardo training, and he knows Riccardo still has more to give than five silly minutes at the end of the game. The only reason Alessio doesn’t want to think about Riccardo leaving is because—

There he goes again, thinking about the kiss. A kiss he is not even sure really happened. Riccardo certainly has not given any indication to support it.

He drops Borini off at his house and resists the urge to drive past Riccardo’s to see if his car is there – he said he was going to his parents’, obviously he is not home – choosing the shortest way home instead.

He is stuck in traffic for another half an hour because the shortest way rarely means the fastest when it comes to downtown Milan. Riccardo hates the traffic there; it is one of the few things outside of football pitch that can really make him lose his temper. For Alessio, the busy evening traffic is near therapeutic, because concentrating on all the other cars around his makes it impossible to wallow on anything else.

His building is quiet and dark when he parks his car in the underground parking lot. It wasn’t a late match, but it is late enough that he dreads the idea of taking Rocco and Carlotta out for a walk or cooking his own dinner. Maybe he can pull together some leftovers, at least enough to survive until breakfast. He probably should have accepted Borini’s invitation to join him and his wife for dinner.

Rocco greets him as soon as he opens the door, and Alessio absently wonders if he really left the lights on in the morning. It had been bright by the time he left, so there should have been no point in having the light on in the first place.

“Hey boy, where’s Carlotta?” he coos softly as he leans down to scratch behind his dog’s ears.

His answer is waiting for him in the living room, and really, he should not be so surprised when he finds his older dog lying on the couch with her head rested in Riccardo’s lap.

“Hi,” Alessio greets in a low voice. It reminds him of the way one might speak to a hospital patient, and it should feel out of place, but for some reason it just— doesn’t.

“Sorry for intruding,” Riccardo returns, and his voice is barely above a whisper. He sounds like he has been crying, although Alessio cannot tell if that’s the case just by looking at his face. He looks frustrated and sad, yes, but there are no tears.

“I took these two out already, so no need to worry about that,” Riccardo says when Alessio cannot find the right words to express what has been on his mind since Riccardo walked off the pitch in Bergamo. “Honestly, they wouldn’t leave me alone before I did. Relentless bastards.” He is petting Carlotta’s head in a way that is in direct conflict with his complaints. Alessio might feel triumphant that his dogs have finally won Riccardo over, but right then, it is the last thing on his mind.

“I thought you were going to Caravaggio.”

Riccardo shrugs, his gaze dropping down to Carlotta’s light fur. “I was. But then I didn’t. Didn’t feel like bothering them with my sulking, you know. So, I decided to drive home instead.” He lets out a hollow chuckle. “But then I ended up here instead. Didn’t even realize where I was going until I was already in front of the house. Probably should’ve turned back the moment I did, instead of bothering _you_ with my sulking, huh?”

From all the rambling, Alessio picks up one message: Riccardo was feeling shitty, and his immediate reaction had been to seek Alessio out. It makes him relax, a warm bubble of calm settling in his chest.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re always welcome here.” He walks over and sits on the armrest of the couch, right next to Riccardo instead of putting Carlotta between them. “Stop pulling the disappearing act, will you? I was worried sick when I didn’t find you after the match.”

Riccardo sways in place for a bit, before tipping forward and pressing his face against Alessio’s chest. “Couldn’t face them. Rino. You. Been so long since my last red. And such a stupid challenge. What a ridiculous way to end my Milan career, hmm?” he mumbles against Alessio’s shirt, warm breath gluing the fabric against skin.

“It’s not over yet,” Alessio argues as he lifts his arms to hold his friend in a loose half-embrace.

“Isn’t it though?” Riccardo asks with another cheerless laugh. His shoulders slump under Alessio’s hold. “It’s not like I have any reason to stay. And my season’s over because I got suspended like an idiot. No heartfelt San Siro goodbyes for me.”

 _I want you here. Don’t you dare leave me here alone. I need you_. The words from a year ago still ring as true as they did back then. But Alessio is one year older, maybe a little wiser, (maybe more deeply in love), and he doesn’t want to be that selfish kid anymore.

“Isn’t that a reason to stay, though?” he whispers, because while he might not be as selfish anymore, he is still far from ready to let go. One of his hands trails up from Riccardo’s shoulder, treads through his soft hair. “Don’t you want to end it on a high note? This is not it, Riccardo.”

Riccardo looks up, his chin and nose still pressed against Alessio’s chest, but eyes fixed on his.

“Ask me why I kissed you.”

That gives Alessio a pause. Because. How? He must have misheard, Riccardo is still talking into his shirt after all. “…What?”

Riccardo shifts back, and Alessio immediately misses the weight against his chest. Riccardo is still close, though, leaning into Alessio’s hand caressing his hair instead. Now Alessio can see his whole face when he repeats slowly, “Ask me why I kissed you, Alessio.” He holds Alessio’s gaze, intense ice blue boring right into his soul. “I know you want to know. You’ve been skirting around it for months. This is me giving you an out.”

It is a challenge, Alessio realizes. Riccardo has been waiting for Alessio to bring it up, and he is tired of waiting.

His hand in Riccardo’s hair firms, palm pressing against the back of his head. He sneaks his other hand to Riccardo’s face, fingers ghosting over a pale cheek, and he can hear breath catching in Riccardo’s throat when the tips brush against the soft skin.

“Why did you kiss me, Riccardo?” Alessio breathes out the question as he leans down, their faces aligned but still far enough to maintain the eye contact.

“I needed to know,” Riccardo whispers, and his eyes are clear even though his voice is trembling like he is about to cry, “if it would be enough. A reason to stay for another year. To play for you, even if I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy playing for myself anymore.”

Alessio is torn between telling Riccardo it is not right, he cannot take that kind of responsibility, and asking, “And did you find out?”

One corner of Riccardo’s mouth lifts into a sardonic half-smile. “Jury’s still out, I guess.”

Alessio was fifteen when he last kissed someone. (Not counting the one with Riccardo because that had been Riccardo kissing him and not the other way around.) He has known Riccardo for almost three years, has dreamed of kissing him for at least two of those. He has no idea what he is doing – he is fairly sure he shouldn’t be doing it – but at the same time he _knows_ what Riccardo is asking of him, and he never learned to deny his captain anything.

So Alessio takes a careful hold of Riccardo’s chin and leans down to close the distance between them. He moves slowly, tilts his face to align their noses, takes the time to savour the feeling of Riccardo’s breath against his lips, and then finally – _finally_ – their lips are pressed together, Riccardo’s soft bottom lip caught between Alessio’s.

It is a plain press of lips on lips, no hard pressure and no tongue, simply because Alessio doesn’t know how. He always thought (hoped) it would come naturally once he found a person he wanted to kiss, but now he feels irreparably out of his depth, inexperienced and awkward where he wants to be smooth and assertive.

When Alessio moves to break the kiss, Riccardo lets out a soft sound of protest from the back of his throat – it sounds a little like a moan and it goes straight into Alessio’s groin, a pool of warmth settling in the pit of his stomach – and he reaches up to Alessio to pull him right back in, hands cupping his face as their lips clash again with much less finesse. Their teeth knock together, but the pain doesn’t linger, not when Riccardo is taking control of the kiss, sucking in Alessio’s bottom lip, nibbling the top one, tongue flicking inside his mouth just for a moment before he goes back to just lips, and all Alessio can do is to try and mimic his actions.

Alessio’s hands are trembling as he moves to caress Riccardo’s neck. No, his _whole body_ is trembling, he realizes when he tries to shift closer to Riccardo, the armrest too far away when he could be pressed up against Riccardo on the couch. He is trembling from head to toe and it seems like his body has stopped listening to his brain altogether, and all he knows is _Riccardo, Riccardo, Riccardo_...

Then there is a third body squeezing between them, this one distinctly Labrador-shaped, and Carlotta is _licking his face,_ finally forcing them to break apart.

Cockblocked by a dog. Typical. Privacy is a luxury that dog owners through the ages have learned to live without, and Alessio is just now learning the extent of it.

“Get lost, Carlotta!” He tries to push the very enthusiastic retriever off the couch, but the dog has obviously had enough of being ignored. Rocco is jumping against Alessio’s leg too, attracted by the shenanigans of his older pack member, determined to get his part of the fun.

“No! Bad dog! Bad Carlotta! Down, girl!” Alessio tries again, but now his commanding voice is mixed with uncontrollable laughter, rendering the words useless. Riccardo’s snickering is not helping either.

And that is the moment Alessio’s stomach decides to let out a loud grumble, because he hasn’t eaten anything since the light lunch ahead of the match.

Riccardo’s cackles turn into proper laughter and with surprising grace he wrestles his way out from under Carlotta. “I can cook something. You got everything for a simple pasta, right?”

He disappears into the kitchen, shortly followed by both dogs because the greedy bastards know Riccardo is easy and they will get snacks if they stare at him with their pleading eyes long enough.

Alessio, on the other hand, hangs back for a long time, his brain trying and failing to understand what his life has become. He has almost managed to convinced himself that he had fallen asleep and dreamt the whole sequence before Riccardo calls for him from the kitchen, asking where he keeps the dog food.

Right, Rocco and Carlotta haven’t eaten anything since the morning either.

Alessio drags himself into the kitchen, but avoids looking straight at Riccardo, preferring to walk over to the cupboard where he keeps the dog food and filling two bowls, his movements stuck on autopilot. If he doesn’t say anything, maybe he can put off facing the consequences of their actions for a while longer.

“You’re out of olive oil,” Riccardo comments softly as he drains the pasta and divides it into two plates before turning back to the stove and his tomato sauce. “Might be a good idea to write it down while you still remember.”

Alessio winces at the forced casualness in Riccardo’s voice, and he does the first thing he can think of to stop him from saying anything else – he walks over and wraps his arms around Riccardo’s waist from behind.

For a fraction of a second, he is certain it was the wrong choice, but then he can feel the tension draining from Riccardo’s body, and the shorter man leans back into his embrace with a defeated sigh.

“I don’t want you to leave the club.” Alessio’s mouth is level with Riccardo’s left ear, lips close enough touch the lobe. He can feel a shiver running through Riccardo’s body.

“I know,” Riccardo replies, voice constricted. It may not be a promise, but it is not a refusal either.

Alessio decides he can live with that. For now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a shithead with no excuses. Thanks for putting up with me.
> 
> A special thanks once again goes to Kellin for betaing this monster, not to mention being my moral support and best cheerleader through thick and thin.❤️❤️❤️

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the silent possessive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28781217) by [LeapAngstily](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily)




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